


Ten Days

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 98,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6075345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth fic. Modern AU. Is just fluff, and just for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Days - Day One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoseHeart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/gifts), [Coraleeveritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coraleeveritas/gifts).



> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=10f7rj9)   
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> In July/August of last year, I decided I needed to take some time out to write some fluff, insofar as I have ever been able to. This is that fluff.
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> With love to RoseHeart and Coraleeveritas.
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> And with my sincerest thanks to Nurdles, who has been a rock throughout, and without whom this would have been impossible.
> 
> Disclaimer: the standard fic disclaimers apply, to all chapters herein.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This fic will update once daily until it is complete. The time of each upload will coincide with a vague approximation of the equivalent time in fic, as every chapter commences, though some cover a long period within a single day. I will put a note marking the hour in GMT at the beginning of each posting, so that readers in different time zones can adjust their reading accordingly, should that be their wish. The epilogue will be posted on the eleventh day, despite not being set then.
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> TEN DAYS - DAY ONE: approximately 14.00 GMT.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY ONE**

 

 “Tyrion, this might be the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Jaime hisses, picking at the back of the psychedelically patterned bright orange and brown seat in front of him. “I’m pretty sure this velour is older than _me_. Don't they have fire safety regulations over here?”

 “Stop whining, will you, brother?” Tyrion requests, his tone reflecting nothing but his good humour at Jaime being so very out of sorts. “And don't be such an unbelievable arsehole. Your rather substantial privilege is showing and it isn't very flattering.” He drains the last of the soda from his can, which Jaime had not failed to see him adulterate slightly with some duty free liquor whilst they were waiting for this ramshackle, pink coach to arrive at Lo Loraq International Airport. His refreshment having been conquered, Tyrion looks at Jaime with a shrug. “You were the one who said you wanted to be as far away from the Rock as you could be during Cersei’s grand anniversary shindig.”

 “I take it back.”

 “No, you don’t.”

 “Maybe I don’t," Jaime says, silently conceding that he would rather pluck out his own eyes than be on hand to celebrate the first year of Cersei's new marriage. "But I’m not sure your dragging me into a travel agency and booking us on a package holiday with three hours to spare qualifies as a sound plan," he grouses, slouching a little further in his seat. He is uncertain as to why this 'vehicle' seems to smell like old, fried onions, though it wouldn't surprise him to find out that the coach used to be used to sell dodgy foods to truckers in some kind of dusty lay-by on this long, coastal road. "Where are we going, anyway?"

 "I forget," Tyrion says, and Jaime doesn't quite believe him.

 "You choose to forget, I think. Is that how you always managed to be so hard to find, when you were younger?"

 "Damn," Tyrion says, meaning no such thing. "My secret is out," he grins, sticking his head out into the aisle. He peers towards the front, where the enormous beast of a woman who serves as the travel rep drones into a tinny sound system about the scenery.

 "Looking out to your left, down by the shoreline, you'll see the ruins of a staging post from the bleak centuries of the slave trade. If ships carried disease, they were not permitted to dock in the trading cities of Slaver's Bay. Their human cargo was 'stored' in these places to see if any would survive. Sadly, most did not." Jaime almost sneers at the heavy pause in her dull litany then, the seriousness in her surely too genuine to be believed. "There is an option of an excursion to visit these ruins in four days time, as well as a whole day trip to Bhorash, should there be any interest," she eventually continues. "If you would like details, please just ask."

 "I'm not sure she could've made that sound _less_ interesting," Jaime mutters to his brother.

 "Ever the critic, Jaime," Tyrion says dismissively. "Besides, don't be so harsh. Brienne," Jaime rolls his eyes at Tyrion remembering her name, because of course he does, "has a terrible job. It must be a thankless task, keeping dreadful people like you happy." Jaime keeps his reflection that he doubts this rundown outfit has ever had to deal with anybody like him quiet, whilst Tyrion again takes a look along the aisle. "You know, Jaime, I do believe those are the longest legs I've ever seen."

 He looks at Tyrion in abject horror. "Please tell me you're not considering -"

 "Not at all," Tyrion chuckles. "I tend to try and limit the height difference between myself and the ladies who so generously share their time with me to a _lone_ foot. Still, the technicalities would be fascinating."

 "Do you think you could get your mind out of the gutter? For say, ten seconds?" Tyrion's attention, if not his feelings, have always been susceptible to easy capture, as their flight from one continent to another all too readily proved, much to Jaime's weary chagrin, alongside that of a number of the cabin crew.

 "That's a tricky ask," Tyrion says, smiling ever more widely, clearly finding Jaime's current mood too thoroughly entertaining. "My mind's always closer to the gutter than anybody else's." He pats Jaime's arm with an entirely condescending amount of care. "Oh cheer up, brother. Here we are, in the endless sun of the east, where nobody knows us and we can spend the next few days or so drinking cocktails and lounging about by the sea."

 "Sounds like _your_ ideal holiday, at least."

 Tyrion shakes his head. "Not enough women."

 That, at least, brings a smile to Jaime. "I guess not." Their coach, which has been winding it's way along a road, hugging the low, red cliffs that skirt the northern end edge of Slaver's Bay for most of the morning, begins to descend to flatter ground once more. They pass two or three small houses, painted in earth tones. "Is this the fishing village we've been waiting for?" he queries. "Or perhaps another, I'm sure equally exotic, place which will smell of old trawlers?"

 "Sulking truly does not become you, brother," Tyrion admonishes, "and yes. If memory serves, this is the place."

 "So you _have_ been here before."

 "Yes. And no, I'm not telling you where we are. You can't make any phone confessions we'll both regret if you don't know." For all that finding a map isn't beyond Jaime's abilities even in the back of beyond, there is some logic to Tyrion's request that they 'go dark.' His fondness for cheap thrillers aside, Tyrion is easily intelligent enough to be aware that Jaime will at least be tempted to phone their sister, and the thought of their father flying post-haste to Essos to retrieve them in the family jet as a result ('on air currents of evil' Tyrion had added, whilst Jaime was busy being distinctly cramped in cattle class) is unpalatable at best. It would be bad enough for him. For his brother, Jaime fears that any such paternal intervention would be worse. Tyrion has been walking a fine line with their father for years, having fought the good fight to shirk the 'responsibilities' of their family name far harder than Jaime has had to for decades.

 Jaime grows silent, watching the simple homes outside become more numerous as they head down into the small town. It is a nothing sort of place, no doubt like numerous other smaller settlements around this small patch of eastern sea; all dust and humbleness.

  _As good a place as any to hide away._

By now the heat in the coach is unforgiving, the small, round air vent above his seat serving only to blow forth a weak current of even warmer air, no matter how much he has fiddled and tapped at it on their journey. The sun is blazing in mercilessly through the large window at his side, and Jaime is beginning to feel like a broiled lobster. Soon enough, however, the coach pulls up with a shuddering rattle outside a three storey complex of modest size, painted in a warm yellow. While the people in front of them begin to stand and gather the brightly coloured bags and accessories that people have seemed to think it proper they take on sunny holidays since time immemorial, Jaime looks at the neatly painted name above the rounded archway leading into the interior, and then at Tyrion. "Sunshine Apartments?"

 "It's endlessly tacky, I know," Tyrion says unapologetically, "but I stayed here some years ago, and I recall it was clean, which I figured is as much as we could hope for at such short notice."

 "You could have just booked us into an all-inclusive resort," Jaime offers.

 Tyrion is having none of it. "And miss all the _fun_? The adventure of discovery?" He drops from his seat and yanks his small and gaudy travel rucksack from its completely uncomfortable storage place behind Jaime's calves. "Come on." Jaime watches his brother waddle off in pursuit of their fellow travellers for a moment or two before rising to his feet himself, stretching out his back, which cracks sharply, making him wince. He has never been one for protracted periods of involuntary immobility. Then he gets his own flight bag from the shelf above their seat and follows, stepping down from the coach at the front into impossibly greater warmth. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, wanting nothing other than to find a shower immediately, whilst Tyrion makes his way over to the travel rep.

 Other than her being mannish and of a truly outrageous height, Jaime had taken no notice of her first thing this morning, a long, night-time flight and his smart-mouthed brother having left him with little time for curiosities. Tyrion is right about her legs though. He suspects that her skirt, some ill-flattering, corporate thing in a shade of pale blue, would be a professional length on any other woman, but it rests at least four inches above this one's dimpled knees. It's matched with a plain white blouse with short sleeves that also does nothing for her, and the general air of overwhelming primness she bears is made complete by the pale plait that hangs from the nape of her neck. Thin and precisely formed, it flicks between her near comically broad shoulders as she turns from guest to guest, handing out keys, directions to individual apartments and tedious reassurances that they are very welcome; that she is there to help at all times, however small any issues they might encounter.

 She speaks to his brother without a hint of the patronising tone Jaime has so often seen him forced to endure from strangers, and she appears genuinely pleased when informed that Tyrion is a returning guest. It shortens the civilities by rote, thankfully, as Tyrion declares he knows the way to apartment 3A and promptly takes ownership of their keys. She then turns to her final guest when Jaime leans into the luggage compartment to retrieve the oddly matching suitcases he and Tyrion had bought at the airport (being so pressed for time, they had turned up there with hastily grabbed passports and only a couple of small shopping bags of clothes each). He shoves them out onto the ground and shuffles back out, as he does so seeing a pair of white plimsolls on large feet, the laces tied into neat bows. The plain, white ankle socks paired with them seem bizarrely childish on a woman so oversized, giving him pause, though Jaime concedes they are as accurately folded into place as he might expect, considering the rest of her. He gives her a last look over as he stands, suddenly unable to work out her age.

 He is shocked that he hadn't already noticed the coarseness of her face. Were she in trousers, she could easily be mistaken for a man, and an unattractive one to boot. Her jaw is broad, her brow heavy, and her nose is showing clear signs of having been mended, perhaps more than once, in a medical facility of the middling sort, at best. And if her clothes are preposterously neat, he has the smallest twinge of happiness in seeing that her cheeks are darkly flushed in the heat, under blazes of freckles.

  _Get the damned aircon on the bus fixed. Then we'd all be a bit happier._

He leaves that point unvoiced, but as if she senses it, or his regard, the travel rep glances at him, for the briefest moment. If she is freakishly plain at best in all other respects, Jaime has to admit that her eyes are amongst the most extraordinary he has ever seen, though it seems a cosmic joke for them to be staring out of such an unfortunately mismatched field of features. Still, he finds himself caught in a wash of kindest, calmest blue, and even when her attention is firmly fixed back on the plump woman in black clothes, it takes Jaime a second to shake the effect of them off. He pulls the strap of his flight bag onto his shoulder and picks up the two small suitcases, intending to find Tyrion. Yet as he walks into the blessedly cool, shady courtyard within, he finds his steps slowing as he listens to the two women walking in behind him.

 "Mrs Bolton. It is so good of you to come back this year, despite your loss. We were very sorry to hear of it."

 "How many times do I have to tell you, Brienne? It's _Walda_. And please don't be too sad for me. It's been a while now." They pass by Jaime and start to traverse the elongated yard, the rep ( _Brienne,_ Jaime thinks to himself) toting an enormous, bulging pink suitcase as if it were made of cotton wool. The guest looks at her, speaking with some anticipation. "I might even start to put aside my mourning clothes, whilst I'm here."

 "That might be good for you, Walda. Do I have to guess what colour you might choose instead?"

 Walda slaps Brienne's arm lightly, positively beaming up at her. "I think you know already!"

 "Jaime!" Jaime looks up and sees Tyrion waiting for him on the highest level, at the top of a stairwell.

 He heads in that direction, only noting Brienne's embarrassed reaction to a friendly query about any men in her life as he hits the right floor. He glances over the railings as Tyrion unlocks apartment 3A, seeing her blush, and not from the heat, as she simply stammers out an awkward, "No."

 "Has your notice been taken by a girl with remarkably pretty eyes, brother?" Tyrion asks wryly as Jaime closes the door behind them.

 "Seeing as how the rest of her face could scuttle a thousand ships, I doubt it."

 Tyrion scowls as he drags a small chair over to the sink next to kettle and fridge. He says nothing until he has clambered up onto it and thoroughly wet his face and hair with cold water, but Jaime can almost hear him grinding his teeth. Tyrion shakes his head when he is done, throwing spatters of water everywhere, reminding Jaime of nothing so much as a dog after washing. The fond thought is stopped dead in its tracks by a cold glare. "I had thought the point of this little trip was to get away from our dear sister. I didn't realise you'd brought her along, but I would swear I just heard her speak."

 That cuts, but there is some right to it, so Jaime just pulls at his shirt, which is completely stuck to him. "I just need to shower. That coach ride was -"

 "Nightmarish?" His point made, Tyrion seems to let his ire go, and drops himself back to the floor. "Turn on the fan before you go, will you?"

 Jaime takes the few steps over to the side of the first of the two, wooden-framed, single beds in the room, reaching up to pull on the short, beaded cord attached to the ceiling fan. It springs into life with a slight wobble, before settling into an agreeably cooling rhythm. Tyrion gets onto the mattress and lays himself out beneath it with a contented sigh, and Jaime peels his clothes off as he heads for the tiny bathroom, stepping into the shower and slamming the cold water on as soon as he is naked. The first shock of the chilly water hitting him draws a low gasp from deep within his chest, but then it is sheer bliss. He doesn't know quite how long he stands there, letting the water sluice over him, washing away the sweat and smells of their long journey, but he only shuts off the stream when his nose is actually cold. He doesn't bother unpacking a towel afterwards, instead just crawling onto the other bed and flopping onto his stomach, covering his legs with a bedsheet alone. He buries his face into a pillow, which truly does smell very clean. He looks across at Tyrion. "This really isn't too bad, all things considered."

 Tyrion grins back at him. "I know, even if it isn't quite as luxurious as your normal experiences of travel. Still, the coach journey _was_ shit," he says, by way of apology. "I'd forgotten about that." He watches Jaime, and grows obviously concerned. "Jaime, how are you?"

 "I'll be fine, Tyrion. I'll probably be no sort of company for a day or two, though. I take it you have old friends to catch up with here?"

 His too knowing question makes Tyrion laugh. "I just might, at that."

 "Then do it. I'd rather be alone for a while. I'll still be here, when you get back."

 Tyrion stares at Jaime until he feels almost uncomfortable under his scrutiny, but seems to understand that there is no wisdom in asking anything more. He just nods, and looks straight up at the ceiling fan again. Jaime relaxes then, finally setting everything aside and starting to drift into sleep, his arms hanging over the sides of the bed. Only occasional thoughts of Cersei trouble him, but their return is again unwelcome and he pushes them away as soon as they arrive. For weeks now he had been tying himself into knots trying to think of any way of avoiding Casterly at this time, and he is grateful that Tyrion eventually offered his oft-tested 'just don't be there' approach. He feels better than he has in a while, and the rest he has been denied is beginning to catch up with him.

 Jaime is dozing when there is a soft knock. Jaime stirs and hears Tyrion walking over to see who their visitor is. Only a half-formed fear that somehow their father has already found them can drive him to turn his head towards the door. It is the very tall travel rep.

  _Brienne. Her name is Brienne._

Naturally, Tyrion waves her straight on in. "Oh, don't mind me," Jaime mutters to himself, slowly dragging his sheet from his legs, up over his arse and to his shoulders.

 If Tyrion merely grins smugly at Jaime, Brienne is mortified by her unwitting intrusion. "I'm so sorry," she says, her eyes, which are indeed extraordinarily pretty, shining with a sudden bashfulness. "I'll go -"

 "There's no rush, Brienne," Tyrion interrupts. "What did you want?"

 "I - uh, I just wanted to see if there was anything you needed."

 "Some privacy would be nice," Jaime grunts, even if, in his tired mind, there is some amusement to be found in Brienne's gaze roving around, looking at anything but him. The room is small enough to make her quest a difficult one, and he is fairly certain she will have seen the workaday, plastic kettle before.

 "Do ignore my brother, Brienne. Jaime is sometimes quite the monster, after long journeys. And I do believe he hasn't been sleeping lately." Brienne turns to leave, but Tyrion forestalls her doing so. "There are a couple of things that we need, though. Do you still have a safe, for valuables?"

 "Yes."

 "Good. Jaime, give me your phone."

 Jaime's eyebrows are expressive enough to work, even when half of his face is planted in a pillow and his voice is muffled. "It's in my trousers, Tyrion."

 Tyrion's eyebrows respond in kind, with extra to spare. "If you think I'm putting my hand into your sweaty trouser pockets, you have another thing coming. Get your bloody phone, Jaime."

 Jaime, the haze of sleep leaving him unable to fully determine the nature of whatever game his brother is playing this time, gets up from the bed with a rumbling moan, being careful to wrap the sheet about his waist, lest the eyes of absurdly tall women everywhere be offended by the very sight of him. He ties the sheet at one hip and slouches over to his trousers, which he'd left in a heap near to where Tyrion is standing. He crouches and ruffles through a couple of unpleasantly damp pockets to pull out his phone. He forces himself not to even look at the screen before he switches it off again, and places it into Brienne's extended hand. Only then does she look at him, her eyes fixed firmly to his face. "If you need it, just let me know. I'm in apartment 1E."

 Jaime nods and watches her turn her gaze back to Tyrion, still avoiding the most of Jaime himself. She seems quite determined about not despoiling her eyes; it is as if she is wearing a pair of blinkers. "There was something else?"

 "Yes, Brienne," Tyrion says, in a friendly enough way. "Do you happen to know if Arrietty's is still in business?"

 It seems like an innocent enough question, but Brienne's reaction to it is extreme. A blush strikes her as though she has been slapped and she gapes most unprettily, unable to form a single word for a full ten seconds. But then she seems to shake herself and answers with what Jaime suspects is her customary level of politeness, when she is deeply uncomfortable. "Yes. I believe that establishment remains popular, and well kept. Though as we have younger guests here, I must ask you not to bring -"

 "Not with my brother here!" Tyrion smiles, tipping his head towards Jaime. "Thank you, Brienne. Jaime, do you mind if I go out for a while? I'm hungry, and Arrietty's serves the most divine peppered steak."

 "Amongst other things, I'm sure," Jaime says dryly. "Go, Tyrion. I'll likely spend the next day or so asleep anyway." He confirms this with a slow nod and satisfied as to the answer, Tyrion leaves with a cheery wave and an instruction for Jaime to head for the seafront when he is ready.

 Jaime finds himself stood alone with Brienne, whose large lips are pressed into a thin, moving line as she tries to work out what to say, her eyes pinned to the ceiling fan above Jaime's shoulder.

 "He just finds it easier to do things that way," Jaime mutters into the yawning silence, attempting not to yawn himself. "He's less likely to get hurt."

 Blue eyes flicker to his in surprise. "I think I understand," Brienne says softly, and Jaime wonders just how closely she does. Unlike his brother, however, she seems markedly doubtful to be the sort to pay for company, even if she might desperately need it. She holds up his phone between them. "I should secure this," she tells him, moving towards the door. "Like I said, if you need it-"

 "1E," Jaime says. "Got it."

 She turns back to him as she steps outside. "You know...Arrietty's isn't my kind of place, but it really does serve a wonderful steak."

 "It doesn't really sound like my kind of place either," Jaime grins as he follows her, "steak or no."

 Brienne appears to mull that over for a moment. "Well, if you get hungry and it's late, there are a few other smaller restaurants on the seafront. Some of them are open all night at this time of year. You can ask me at -"

 "Anytime. _Got it_." Jaime has no intention of bothering her, or anybody else at all during the course of his stay. "Now if you don't mind, I am going to try and get some of that sleep I've heard so much about. You can stand and watch, if you think it'll help."

  _"No!"_ Again she blushes, and Jaime has the momentary idea of making her do so as often as possible becoming some kind of personal quest as she hurriedly makes for the stairs. She pauses and looks back again. "I hope you get some rest. I'll try to stop the children running around on this landing too much. Welcome to Sunshine Apartments, Jaime." She disappears, her plait tapping at her spine with each step, and Jaime stands there in his sheet, listening to her feet as she alternately pads and thunders down short flights of stairs. He laughs quietly as he hears a larger thud signalling her having jumped the last few steps in one, and for no reason at all, waits until he sees her make her way into apartment 1E, across the courtyard, before closing the door and heading back to his bed.

 


	2. Ten Days - Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the usual.
> 
> Time; around a half an hour before dawn, wherever you may be.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY TWO**

Jaime stares into the tiny cup in front of him, and decides to chance another sip. He's not sure precisely what is in there, apart from perhaps a joke on the part of this small, seafront restaurant's proprietor, which is entirely possible given that he has been sitting here for around three hours, and has spent relatively little in the way of coin. A joke or not, it makes no difference. The thick, brown sludge is foully bitter on his tongue, so Jaime places the cup back down onto its saucer with the quietest of clinks. He leans back into the corner. Both the wood of the front of the building and the trellis where he rests his arm, a square lattice jutting out onto the beach itself, woven with trailing, thin plants, feels rough, displaying a homespun kind of wear that these days could be genuine or affected. He simply can't tell, though in this case he suspects it is the former.

 Above him, the bright lightbulbs strung around the edge of the vast, red and white striped plastic awning wink out, as morning finally starts to approach. He twists to peer in though the window, but the burly owner reassures him with an easy gesture that they are not closing. Jaime settles back into place, breathing salt air in deep while he appreciates the change for what it has suddenly done. Under the bright lights, the sea had been all blackness, and he could not say just how long he'd thoughtlessly watched the white froth of wave caps form and break on the sand before him, as if out of a void. It had suited his mood, as he tried to finally drive the resurgent past away for good. But now the sea is less dark, the jagged reflections of blue and the oncoming rush of pre-dawn pink above easier to see.

 Along the beach, he watches maybe two dozen men slowly gather around a few modest, flat-bottomed fishing boats. There is some amusement to be found as the older men, in their more traditional Essosian garb, start to push the small, yet heavy-looking hulls off the beach. Almost as one, they turn to berate their less lively younger crew members, who are dressed more fashionably and stare into the blue light emanating from their phones, maybe sending messages to loved ones before they depart. There are some confrontations full of rather too practised shouting, back and forth, and Jaime can't help but think that this might happen every day. And that teenagers could well be very much the same, the world over. The discord eases soon enough, just minutes sufficient to see the boats floating in the shallows and the men, young and old, hauling themselves into their vessels easily. The engines, when they come alive, cut through the air like bandsaws, a jarring noise, but Jaime simply watches them head out in differing directions, waiting for the sound to be worn away by separation from the tideline. By the time it is nothing but a gentle hum, hardly noticeable above the soft wash of seawater through sand on the shore, the sky is rose pink, almost from east to west, just the barest band of darker blue where night has gone, and lighter blue fighting for a foothold where day will begin.

 It is then that a barefooted, darkly clad figure paces past him, so close he could touch her. It is Brienne. Not the damned near unbearably polite travel rep who is all neatness, though there is nothing to be seen in her now to suggest anything else, other than her hair. It hangs, pale and loose, thin and dead straight, to the middle of her back, only moving when it is caught in a low morning breeze, making some of it lift and tangle out over her right shoulder. But even the hair does not signify the difference. That is done by the ease in her pushing it back again. It is there in the firm, even press of her feet into the sand as she makes her way out to the water. In the way Jaime can see, even from behind her, the relaxation in her frame as she looks out to the sea, as though she is greeting an old friend.

 Jaime smiles as he realizes he's never before met a woman who contrives to own swimwear that covers more skin than her work clothes. Her arms, which she starts to stretch and shake out after dropping a small, patterned towel to the sand, are both hugely strong and bare, it is true, yet the rest of her is covered, from neck to ankles, in a black skinsuit that both hides her and does nothing of the sort at the same time. And right then he finds, within himself, a niggling sort of admiration for her, despite the fact that her ears stick out too much, even in this light, and she has practically no waist to speak of. Yesterday, he had seen her doing what she could to please, all the while trying to fit herself into a smaller frame; every single one of her actions, when she knew she was being seen, controlled and restricted.

 Here and now, she is unashamedly monumental. She is herself.

 So even if Jaime's intent when he woke in darkness and came here was simply to wait, to wallow, and to watch the sun rise, he ignores the ever-lightening sky and watches Brienne instead. She paces into the water without hesitation, though there is no bravery in that. Jaime knows it, the brief paddle he took in the night, prior to searching for a place to eat when he woke hungry, proof positive that the seas here aren't cold. But once she is far enough out to slide herself low into the waves, the water rushing around her, there is an absolute freedom in the way Brienne turns herself about on the surface, flipping from her front to her back again and again with a sense of happiness he can feel at this distance. For a while after that, she merely floats along, apparently gazing up at the sky. Jaime looks to it too, and it is worth the seeing, the threat of a warm sunrise now more than a daily promise.

 Yet oddly, it is as the first rays of the sun lance out from the east that she rises for a moment, still looking away from the land, the undulating sea yet only reaching to mid-bicep on her. And as the sun is reborn, Brienne jumps and spears back into the water, her arms steepled in front of her, a fierce set of kicks sending up a flurry of spray and her away from the shore. It is not the ideal start, however, and it takes her a full minute to reach what seems to be her ideal speed, the arc of her arms cutting through the low waves economical, yet powerful. She heads out to a plastic buoy which is bobbing up and down about 200 yards out, then turning and heading to another further along the bay. There is something hypnotic in the regular rhythm of her movement. It lulls Jaime in a way, and more than the sounds and smell of the sea had during the hours of the night had. Brienne turns again then, and heads in for the land again.

 She emerges from the water without pause, the seawater smacking against her thighs and then her shins while she wades ashore, even if Jaime can barely hear it. She slowly walks back and retrieves her small towel, a few deft flicks of her wrist enough to throw off the sand on it. Then she twists it about the sodden ends of her hair, squeezing it tight for a second before letting it go again. She takes the corners in both hands and rubs at those lank, wet tails and appears to be perfectly happy as she heads back in Jaime's direction, no doubt making her way to Sunshine Apartments, to start her working day.

 Jaime doesn't know what drives him to do it. His wish to be alone and possibly sulking manfully is one he holds quite dear, though it could be Brienne absently humming some low melody as she draws nearer that sees him suddenly sticking out his hand into the pathway and waving. "Good morning."

 Brienne stumbles to an abrupt stop, her hip an inch or so from the very tips of his fingers, her attention having been fixed to the dusty pathway ahead, likely scanning for dangers to her bare feet. She looks at him blankly, almost stupidly, for a moment. Then, like a shutter falling, the carefree young woman is gone and the professional is present. It is a change that Jaime is certain he can physically see, and he feels a sharp pang of regret of having caused it, though it is brushed away easily enough.

 Her unsightly gawping done, Brienne nods evenly. "Good morning, Jaime. Are you lost?" she offers.

 "Do I look lost?"

 "Not particularly," she admits, with a small, rueful smile. "Is there anything you need?"

 "Not particularly," Jaime bats back. "I just thought you might like to sit for a minute or two. You're quite the swimmer." Both the voiced offer and the observance surprise him as much as they do Brienne, who wrings her towel lightly in her hands and after a spell of appearing to try to think of a way of politely declining, walks around the low trellis, ducking her head a touch more than Jaime had been forced to earlier when she passes under the front of the awning. She pulls out the green plastic chair opposite Jaime and he can't help but grin as she folds the towel and arranges it tidily on the seat.

 She carefully sits, bolt upright. "Thank you." There is a deeply awkward silence as she stares at the table between them and Jaime briefly wonders why in the seven hells he even asked her to join him in the first place. But then she looks up. "I do enjoy swimming."

 "Do you compete?" Jaime asks, for the want of something better to, but then the door to the little restaurant opens and a severely beautiful woman with very dark hair strides confidently out.

 "Brienne!" she exclaims. "It is good to see you." She tilts her head fondly in the direction from which she had emerged. "He thought you might need this." She places a bottle of cool water in front of Jaime's lump of stiff company and makes to move straight back inside, apparently wanting to give them some space.

 "Thank Harghaz for me, will you, Barsena?" Brienne swiftly requests, just as her gaze flicks towards the small cup and saucer sat in front of Jaime. "Do you think you could bring me another?"

 "You mean for _him_ , don't you?" Barsena laughs while she steps back to their table. She says nothing to Jaime, just pointing gently at the offending crockery. He shrugs and offers it up, thankful for the respite of its exile, and does not miss the dry look that passes between the women as she turns to leave once more.

 He says nothing until Barsena is safely ensconced back inside the building. "Bloody tourists," he mutters.

 "What? No!" Brienne says, frankly and obviously unable to even look at him.

 "I'd wager my right hand that that is _exactly_ what you both just thought."

 "I...well..," she stutters, only to narrow her eyes at him. "Do you _need_ another right hand?"

 "I'm not sure that's how wagering works, lambikins," Jaime says, honeying his voice with about the correct amount of drawl needed to imitate the lead in 'Daeron's 11'.

 Brienne's reaction is curious. There is the unmistakable twitch of a smile at the impression, but then that is gone, and she becomes more curt. "I don't know how wagering works," she says bluntly, only for her mood to alter again, made something softer. "It isn't my fault that brick tea isn't to your taste."

 "That was _tea_?"

 His spluttering question brings forth a genuine smile, which renders her a little prettier in the early morning light, though it is the spark of mild humour in her, newly lit, that he finds more interesting. "Yes. And they must have welcomed your custom, otherwise they would have given you milk tea instead."

 "I take milk in my tea. It could've done with it, to be honest," he tells her. "You can stand a fork up in the stuff. I nearly did. I tried."

 Brienne shakes her head firmly, suddenly made all large, slightly crooked teeth and bright eyes. "With _fermented_ milk?"

 "Who would want that?" Jaime asks, watching as she unflicks the cap of the bottle and quickly tips her head back, taking a mere sip from it. It is a decidedly delicate process, ladylike, one could say, were she not so ungainly in body.

 "We would," Barsena says from their side, and Jaime wonders at the fact that a large, unprepossessing woman, damn near to covered in some kind of freakily advanced neoprene, had so absorbed his thoughts that he hadn't seen someone else approaching.

  _I think I'm losing my touch._

Barsena drops his bottle in front of his now folded arms, more carelessly than she had done for Brienne, and pats his shoulder amiably. "We keep the old stuff for those visitors who are most troublesome. But don't worry," she tells him. "Any good friend of Brienne's is a friend of ours."

 Jaime shoots a cutting look at Brienne who is quite obviously immediately gathering herself to protest that they only met yesterday, and are in no way friends. Thankfully, she relents, and Barsena goes indoors again without further comment, other than a bout of unmistakably delighted and far too girlish giggling.

 The awkwardness roars back at that, but Jaime won't let it dwell. "So. Milk tea?"

 However erroneous her friend's implications are, and there can be no question that Brienne is abashed by them, they are put aside. She fixes her gaze to his with solid determination and launches into an unexpected mini-lecture, of sorts. "Milk tea originated amongst the Dothraki. They traditionally drank it during celebrations, as I understand it. But a few centuries back they decided that the alcohol was better honoured by being left unwarmed and absorbed wholly, " she smiles, and Jaime can't help but do so with her, for her enthusiasm for the subject is instantly plain to see. Brienne shrugs minutely. "So now there is brick tea and fermented goat's milk, which never meet, except for here, when Harghaz is feeling most blighted by folk from the west. It could have been fermented mare's milk in the past, too. Some people think it was originally made from the Dothraki herds, but nobody really knows." She taps her large fingers lightly in an odd beat, on the table, still looking directly at him. "I was once told another story; that there was an endless celebration, after a very long war, that saw them run out of milk before they ran out of brick tea, and that when fresh supplies of the milk arrived, the tea was gone. But at that point the Horse Lords decided they liked both ingredients better when they were apart. So the tradition was broken."

 She halts and Jaime thinks he knows what she is doing. "You're babbling."

 "Yes."

 "Good story though."

 "It is." She swallows uncomfortably. "I like the old stories."

 "So do I. Why are you babbling, Brienne?" Jaime asks, leaning in.

 She leans back, in perfect time with him. As far away as she can, without tipping her seat over. "I think I should go. I have to start work soon. Thank you for your company, Jaime." She stands and picks her towel up, slinging it over her shoulder and placing her chair against the table, then making her way out into the rapidly rising heat. She doesn't look back, but Jaime does, and glimpses what she had found so worrisome. All the time she had been telling him tales of old, she had been able to see about half a dozen pairs of assorted eyes peering out from the bottom of the restaurant windows, scouring the view for badly needed gossip.

  _It's always badly needed, in small towns._

 "That's not exactly what I'd call subtle!" he says as he taps on the window, and even if it lends more grist to the mill, decides to ignore their knowing laughter and get to Brienne, who does not seem the sort who would ever appreciate being the subject of such pointed examination.

 She is not so far along the dusty pavement when he catches up with her, her initial burst of speed, borne from just wishing to get away, now gone. When he arrives at her side, she has given in to wandering along the pavement with her hands covering her eyes, bare feet be damned.

 "Brienne?"

 She turns to him sharply, her face wretched. "I'm very sorry, Jaime."

 "What?"

 "You are our guest. I'm sorry if I have embarrassed you."

"And why would you have embarrassed me, precisely?"

 Brienne looks at him as if his mind were made out of a jelly that had only been left to set inside a fridge for twenty minutes. At the most. "No-one...no _man_...has ever chosen to sit with me in the early morning. They will read things into it. Things that aren't there."

 Jaime agrees, but that doesn't mean he finds her abject despair at this shift of events any kind of comfort. He is the one that has broken her morning routine, which she was clearly happy with, and he would guess that her carefully built persona as the polite and caring travel rep was constructed to deflect any such attention. Even if a part of him believes that a shockingly large amount of that is frustratingly true within her. And he doesn't have to live here. She does.

 "Look, if it serves, I can be there every morning. If you need it. Or very much elsewhere, if you don't. Whatever makes it easier. I seriously have nothing planned."

 Brienne seems to be damned close to offended at the mere thought of such a proposition. "I can't ask that of you. You are our guest and are free to do as you choose. I _wouldn't!"_

 Now the sense of outrage is Jaime's, and he moves closer, mostly bemused, but as is his way, still close to sneering up into her face, "Oh fuck, you really are that disgustingly honourably... _nice_ , aren't you?"

 "What's wrong with that?" she nearly shouts back, her words almost drowned out by the ringing clang of a nearby dustcart, the arrival of which seems only to have been noted by either of them when a large metal bin, which has been lifted up by a mechanical arm, bangs very loudly against the upper lip of its gaping maw. They stand and glare at each other most convincingly until it moves a few yards further up the road and a waft of distinctly unsanitary-scented air hits them, making them both start to smile.

 "That is a truly horrific smell," Jaime says.

 Brienne nods. "We should get back."

 Jaime concurs, and their long legs take them by the horrors of stale cabbage and rotten, wine-sodden vegetables soon enough. Once they are past it, he grimaces and points to his shorts, not wanting to pour flaming oil onto a growing disagreement. "What do you think of _my_ swimwear, by the way?"

 "Hideous," Brienne says bluntly, shrugging her enormous shoulders. She doesn't even look at them, or so it seems.

 Jaime spends a spare moment staring in a mockery of despondence as they walk along, down at his loose, knee-length shorts, covered as they are in both flaming explosions and palm trees. They do appear to be the textile version of the end of the world. Yet before he says anything, Brienne says, "I've never competed."

"What?" Jaime asks, the statement having taken him off-guard. "And I bought them at the airport, by the way. I had to."

 Brienne accepts his explanation and pats her suit at some nondescript point between her hip and her waist, and somehow Jaime's gaze lingers to decipher hints of curves as she says, "I am very good at swimming, but not great at it. Same with pyramid ball, before you ask."

 "I didn't ask," Jaime counters, not admitting that he might have gone on to do so, at some point.

 "You would have," Brienne smiles, and Jaime wonders how often she has heard the same questions before.

 "So what's with the very costly swimwear, then?" He is still intermittently looking at the oh-so-slight dip between her wide hips and her ribcage, and he isn't sorry. She is definitely a woman, if not one who is overtly so, and there is something in that which is oddly fascinating to him.

 Brienne nudges him sideways, so she can step around a few shards of broken glass. "The pro swimmers were banned from using these suits a few years ago. The prices dropped, so I bought a few unwanted practice suits. They're easier, and cheaper than the comp ones."

 "Why?"

 "Hidden zips," Brienne says, fiddling at the front of her neck. The flat end of a small zip pull falls out, and then she smiles freely. "You don't want to see me trying to get into one without fastenings." She laughs lowly at that, self-mockingly, but Jaime has the perverse and sudden urge to see her giving it a go.

 He distracts himself with another question as they turn into the narrow road to Sunshine Apartments. "So how did you end up working here, Brienne?"

 Brienne considers his query seriously before answering. "I'm here every year, Jaime. At least, whenever I can be. Sunshine Apartments is owned by Lennart Goodwin." She looks at him, as they pass a delicatessen with yet another red and white awning. Jaime can't help but think that a lone firm has the monopoly on awnings here, as Brienne continues. "Lennart was my late father's best friend. He has worked hard to be a good man." She glances at Jaime once more, as if for unneeded affirmation, so he nods for her to go on. He wants to know, it turns out.

 She slows her steps and lowers her voice markedly as they approach Sunshine Apartments. "Lennart retired out here just before my father died. But the last few years or so have seen him becoming more and more physically frail. He has Missy, who is like a daughter to him. She helps him run things for most of the year. But she needs time off. She deserves it. She's amazing. But I can only help out here in the high season. So that's why I'm here now."

 She turns into the stone archway, and Jaime grabs her wrist, pulling her back. "Are you telling me that this isn't even your _job_? That you aren't being paid for doing this?" he whispers, and not without some ferocity.

Brienne shakes his arm away, and is suddenly much taller than him, peering down with bright blue eyes which are damning in their confused disappointment. "As if I could make it about money, Jaime. He is family, as well as I have ever known it. _Family._ "

She stalks into the cool courtyard ahead, but Jaime does not follow her. He stands in the furnace of the newly borne, blasting sun, for as long as he is able, thinking only one thing.

  _Family isn't always that simple._

 


	3. Ten Days - Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: same as always.
> 
> Time: around midday.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY THREE**

 

 With Tyrion having reappeared with an unsurprising and desperate need for sleep, Jaime leaves apartment 3A and walks down to the courtyard, passing a bedraggled looking young boy on the way. The child's colourful beach towel is heavy and sopping wet, trailing down the stairs behind him, all of his efforts concentrated upon toting his large, castle-shaped bucket, which is filled to overflowing with a colourful selection of pebbles and shells.

 "Are you alright there?" Jaime asks, lifting the towel and draping it carefully over small shoulders. The thought of somebody tripping over it and breaking bones doesn't strike him as something to improve the holiday mood for anyone.

 Dark eyes shine brightly up at Jaime in unspoken thanks. "Yup," the boy says, cheerily popping the 'p' sound and heading up to the second floor, the muscles in his skinny arms straining until he reaches the landing. He sits down with a thump once he makes it, dropping his thin legs through the railings and swinging them freely over the courtyard. He tips his bucket out and starts to rummage through his treasure, ending up tapping a red, flat stone against a large cockleshell.

 "Elia?" a frantic voice calls when Jaime makes the courtyard itself. _"Elia!"_ A woman, dragging a toddling girl along and with a baby strapped to her chest almost bumps into Jaime, such is her hurry and distress. "I'm sorry," she mutters to Jaime, holding up a damp, pink rag between them, "but I'm looking for a girl of seven years old. She has short hair, a striped towel, and an inability to listen to her mother. Have you seen her?"

 "There was a boy -" Jaime says, pointing in the child's direction.

 "Thank you," she breathes in relief, her voice becoming more sharply accented, showing her to be from Dorne, when she shouts at her errant offspring, "Young lady, you are in trouble now. How many times have I told you that _this_ ," she waves what must be her daughter's shirt up at her, "is not something that a young girl should do?"

 "I don't know much about children, but I think she'll grow out of it, soon enough," Jaime quietly attempts to console the woman, trying not to grin up Elia, whose only reaction to her mother's chiding is to bang shell and stone together harder, all the while flapping her mouth open and closed in the spirited manner of one far too used to chafing under the parental yoke. Jaime only wishes he could venture such an action with his own father. With a last, friendly nod, the woman picks up her toddler with a tired moan, settling the child on her hip next to the babe and treading slowly up the stairs. All the way, there are harsh words for little Elia; of how well-behaved girls stay covered on the beach, of not hitting other children with a plastic spade quite so hard when they throw stones at her, of the benefits of not running away, and of how very worrisome she is being.

 If Jaime finds some admiration for the way in which the child glances down at him and shrugs, as world weary as she can be with her mother's words as he imagines would be possible for a growing girl, he voices nothing, just watching with some mild sympathy as her ear is lightly tugged and she is pulled into apartment 2D, her sigh as she trails along so heartfelt that it echoes in the courtyard. The door slams shut and Jaime sees the piles of precious, hastily abandoned cargo, hauled all the way back from the seafront, sitting in an untidy, unstable pile, close to tipping over the edge of the landing. It only takes him seconds to go up there and he crouches, refilling the orange bucket, with its turrets and castellations, with a few sweeps of his hands. He places the bucket next to the door labelled 2D, and lifts the soaking beach towel, shaking it out and spreading it over the galvanized metal balustrade to dry.

 "I could have done that, you know."

 The yard below is blazing under the sun, now directly overhead, but her words are yet warmer. "I was here, Brienne. It seemed like the thing to do."

 Her head tilts gently from one side to the other, as if she doesn't quite know what to make of him. She is tall beneath him, the sun is overhead, and her eyes are very blue in the light of it. "Are you having a good day, Jaime? Is there anything you need?"

 He chuckles and leans on the wet towel. A stray lock of hair drops in front of his eyes and he blows it away before saying, "Less of the 'anything you need' patter, lambikins. I'm not buying it." He tries to appear as mortally offended as he can, even as her silently formed and qualitatively more offended mouthing of the word 'lambikins' plays over her large lips. "You stood me up."

 Brienne's mouth opens and closes repeatedly, not unlike young Elia's so recently, but with far less focus. It is almost a minute before she answers, during which Jaime has the odd feeling of being in some twisted balcony scene in a play, with himself as the pretty maiden, of sorts, and Brienne as the entirely unwilling lover, dragged along to call. "We made no proper arrangement to meet," she finally blusters, her shoulders squaring impressively. "And I had work to attend to."

 "And what was that, pray tell?" Jaime asks, now laughing freely as he jogs easily back down the stairs, just quickly enough for her not to leave. As his feet hit the sun-baked flagstones of the yard and start to eat up the ground between them, he smiles at her, unwilling to share the fact that looking up from the sea at daybreak had indeed been soothing. "I know you're not really a travel rep. You told me that yesterday. So what could possibly have kept you away from what Barsena has told me is your closely observed daily habit of a dawn swim?" All semblance of awkwardness in Brienne sloughs away as he draws near and she waits until he has stopped to lift up her right hand. In it is an adjustable wrench. Jaime looks about and sees a red toolbox next to yet another towel sitting on the low, brick wall surrounding one of the raised flowerbeds. "So you're a...plumber?"

 "Only today," she mutters, with a shrug, not enlightening him further on the point of her true occupation. She is more forthcoming about the plumbing. "Some water leaked down from 2E into my apartment in the night. I think a sink trap is blocked, judging from where it came through. I've emptied the sink and cleaned away all of the spilled water I can. Now I have to get to the source."

 "Sounds like fun. Do _you_ need some help?" Jaime asks, wondering quite how she is still neat as a pin in her poorly made uniform, her hair perfectly pristine in its severely held plait, given that she has been dealing with a minor flood during the course of the morning.

 "No."

 "I could pass you the tools."

 "You're on holiday, Jaime," Brienne says, stepping over to the flowerbed and raising the handle of the toolbox so she can thread the towel beneath it and then lift it from its place. When she sees that he hasn't moved as she heads for the stairs, she looks back at him quizzically. "It's empty for now, so you can come if you want, but I don't think it will qualify as entertainment."

 "I want to help." For some reason, he does, though Jaime thinks it more because he is at a loose end, than anything else.

 "Okay," Brienne shrugs, "so 2E it is."

 Jaime follows her up the stairs, and he feels like he's trudging through treacle as he tries to stare at anything other than mannish calves and the fascinating flashes of thigh ahead of him, as they rise. There is a terribly synthetic whoosh of hideous material with Brienne's every step, and a dreadful corner of his mind begs that slip of cheap material to rise a touch further with every movement. _Thank fuck we're not going to the top floor,_ Jaime thinks, as they hit a landing and stay there, leaving him already trying not to think of pale patches of freckles on skin that he would guess only get to bathe in the sun for a few weeks of every year.

 They go into the apartment above Brienne's and Jaime can smell the after-effects of too much water instantly. It is heavy in the air, even if Brienne seems to have taken enough action to prevent major damage earlier on in the day. There are some puddles sitting about, on a few terracotta floor tiles, but all in all, whatever disaster befell this place, it wasn't too bad. "What do you want me to do?"

 "Nothing much, I think," Brienne says, "but would you mind passing me the towel?"

 Jaime pulls the towel out from it's place upon the toolbox, where she'd left it by the door, and flings it at her. His right hand not being quite what it once was, it spins wildly in the air. It doesn't trouble Brienne, however, as she plucks it into stillness by a corner, with a mere thumb and finger, with a shocking amount of ease, though it slaps against her arm.

 "Thanks," she says dryly, as she opens the cupboard under the sink and grimaces. Jaime muses if she even knows who he is yet, with a brief glance at the inside of his right wrist. He has no idea, but shoves his ego aside, and watches this vast woman lay herself down in front of the open door and then wriggle herself uncomfortably into the space revealed, though for her it seems far too small. She pulls the towel up over her chest, and if it drags up her skirt a little, Jaime will not own it. He is more fascinated by her groaning at an unwelcome truth revealed.

 "It's dripping on me. This is it," she says, despondently.

 "I know precisely nothing about plumbing, Brienne. What does that mean?"

 "The waste pipe is blocked and the last guests left the tap dripping. The sink overflowed in the night, but the seal is broken too. You wouldn't believe what people will flush down sinks when they're on holiday." She reaches out a long arm. "There's a plastic pot in the bottom of the toolbox. Could you get it please?"

 Jaime does so, all the while thinking that he has never spared a thought as to what is washed away in sinks, either home or away. He hands her the bowl after a moment or two of searching and crouches down next to her, peering in to see what she is doing. "Do you have to be in there?"

 She lifts her head slightly as she puts it into place. "Yes. I'm no plumber, and things here aren't exactly...built to standard." Her cheeks puff out hugely with a huff of resignation. "You might want to stand back."

 Jaime takes her at her word, standing and retreating until he is almost at the other side of the room. He lowers his face just in time to see her twist some kind of fixing and witness a stream of what can only be thought of as foulness pouring out onto her. Brienne's face becomes truly ugly then, a low moan of revulsion seeping from behind firmly closed lips as she tries not to gag. She turns her face away and blindly fumbles for another coupling, swiftly twisting it apart and dropping the offending part into the bowl, then shimmying out of the small cupboard as quickly as she can, her heels scrambling against the floor tiles. She sits up, throwing the towel away and her head forward, though the air there can't be much cleaner. The odour is just reaching Jaime, and it makes the efforts of yesterday's dustcart pale in comparison. "What _is_ that?"

 Brienne doesn't look up, just trying to clean off her left hand on her shirt and unclipping a small keychain from her waistband. "Old food. Or faeces. Or vomit. It could be anything." She flings a key wildly at his feet. "I should have known it would be this bad, with somebody else here to see." She stares down at her shirt, which despite the sterling work of the towel is spattered with whatever people with no manners, or perhaps even human socialisation, had left behind, and then glances at Jaime and the small shard of metal at his feet. "That's the key to 1E. Would you mind going there, Jaime? In the second drawer you'll find shirts. Could you -?"

 "Take this." Jaime wastes no further time, seeing Brienne sitting there with her legs awkwardly akimbo and her face sallow with wretchedness enough to have him instantly pulling his shirt over his head and holding it out to her. "Just get that _off_ you."

 It might be that in another situation, she would stare at the green shirt, swinging from his proffered left forefinger, with some apprehension, but the smell alone is reason enough, even from here, for Brienne to fly up to her feet and grab it from him, her fingers already tearing at the buttons of her terribly proper shirt. She pauses for long enough to ask, "Please turn away?"

 Jaime does so, but even in the rising stench that is filling the little apartment, he has not failed to notice the faint and angular slivers of plain white material that sit beneath the narrow opening of her shirt. White embroidered upon white, in shapes he could not make out. Dots or petals, he doesn't know or even care, but there were tiny holes in it, as if her bra had to have freckles too. It would be something he might smile at, were the smells about them not quite so odious.

 "I'm done," Brienne says, and Jaime turns to her. "Thank you," she says, nodding in the direction of the tiny balcony, just the same as all of the upper apartments have, and Jaime follows her at speed.

 It is a moment's work for her to open the narrow, sliding door, and when they are both breathing in much sweeter scented air, their forearms resting on the railings outside, Jaime laughs. "Well, that is the least glamorous thing I've ever had happen to me on holiday."

 Brienne looks at him and smiles. "I wish I could say the same." She tugs at his favourite shirt and looks at him apologetically. "I'll clean it before I get it back to you," she says. "Though it may take a few washes. I really stink now."

 He takes in the view of a shirt he's owned for many years, stretched slightly too tightly over a body that, a few days ago, he might have scorned completely. Yet given the way it hugs her large form, the small softness lent to her chest as they both lean over in this sunny place far beyond what he seen in her restrictive choice of swimwear, Jaime can't think of a better and more deserving end for it. "Burn it. I bought it at the airport," he lies.

 Brienne seems to know it immediately too, her fingers teasing at the soft, worn hem and her eyes narrowing at him.

 Jaime thinks it a good time to change the subject. He stands and leans back into the far corner of the little balcony, crossing his arms across his chest. "So, Brienne. You've seen my arse, but I don't even know your full name."

 She mirrors his movement and then flicks her gaze out onto the street, where a grey-haired, crook-backed ice-cream vendor is having a newspaper waved in his face by an elderly woman, accompanied by a great deal of shouting. The two residents of wherever the hells this is are arguing about sports, as far as Jaime can glean it, but only through their numerous shoutings of the words 'dragons', and rapid firing of numbers at each other. 'Dragons' has always been the most popular name for teams, in the east, in combination with an alarming array of colours and descriptions.

 "They've been married for forty years, though I'm not sure how they haven't killed one another, yet," Brienne tells him, gazing fondly down at the pair. "They are avid fans of rival teams. 'Meet and Meat should never meet', is how they put it here. Though I've never been quite sure which way round they go, nor why both teams chose the Common Tongue in their naming." She shrugs. "The saying isn't quite so catchy in the local dialect." She looks at Jaime again, and with barely a pause, says, "Tarth."

 "Tarth," Jaime repeats, and it feels pleasant enough on his tongue. "Brienne Tarth." His rarely referenced geographical knowledge rears up. "Like the island?"

 "I'm from the island," Brienne tells him, with a soft smile. She is clearly fond of it.

 "Is that where you live?"

 Brienne shakes her head. "No. Once I qualified, I couldn't get a position there. They rarely come up."

 "Qualified as what?"

 "A teacher."  She smiles at him in bemusement. "I didn't intend to end up as one at all. I _did_ initially get a scholarship because of sport. I used to throw the javelin."

 "That would've been my next guess, after swimming and pyramid ball." At her look of sheer disbelief, Jaime shrugs. "So you could throw a spear, back in the day?"

 "I suppose you could put it like that," Brienne admits, and if she appears a touch confused as to his phrasing it that way, Jaime consciously fails to give her a reason why. "But I had one too many injuries and I had to swap to my academic minor."

 "And what was you minor-major, Brienne?" Jaime asks.

  "History."

 "Now that I should have known," he chuckles. "You like the old stories."

 "I do," she nods, tucking a barely visible loose strand of hair behind her ear whilst a truck rumbles along the lane, emitting thick puffs of smoke from its rattling exhaust. "It seemed natural to take it up. Yet once I'd finished I had no idea what to do with it. I'd never really given it any thought."

 "And so off to teacher training you went," Jaime finishes. He is curious about one thing. "How do you get along with the children? You seem the sort to be quite good at it."

 Now Brienne laughs outright, her eyes shining bright, which is a wonderful thing to see, though it comes along with her quickly shaking her head. "Not at first! I'd never known any children well, and I was _terrible_ with them!" A mere shadow seems to flit across her face then, but it barely registers with Jaime before it is gone again. "I loathed the idea of going back to school yet again anyway, but I soon became determined to make it work. I've never studied so hard. It was worth it though. Now I can't imagine doing anything else."

 "Apart from being a travel rep, of course."

 "Of course," she concedes, pushing away from the railings and looking glumly at the glazed doorway to broken plumbing and noxious smells. "Which I should probably get back to. Thank you, Jaime," she says, "but you don't have to do any more. Just run straight through and -"

 "If you think I'm going back in there, you have another thing coming," Jaime says. "And seeing as how you're doing all of this out of the goodness of your heart, I think you should leave it too."

 "I wouldn't!" Jaime hears her completely unsurprisingly objection to the thought as he peers down to the path below.

 "What do you reckon the drop is from the floor of this balcony to street level, Brienne? Twelve feet?"

 "Eleven. Why? Jaime, what are you _doing_?" she asks, her voice tinged with panic when Jaime flings one leg over the railing and carefully manoeuvres the other to join it, only one moment giving him cause to wince.

  _Careful with the family jewels, old man. It's been a while since you did this._

 The advance of time sees him accomplishing his aim a little less gracefully than he used to, but it isn't difficult, and soon enough his toes have purchase on the outside of the balcony's edge. Though he might end up standing here all day, if the hands that are now fiercely holding his own fast to the top of the railings don't let go. "Jaime!" Brienne exclaims, her eyes apparently set to maximum wideness.

 Whilst that stunning concern is oddly endearing, he isn't going to wait here forever. "It's fine, Brienne. I have a surprisingly extensive amount of experience in dropping from low hanging balconies." He flexes his wrists up and down, not relinquishing his grip until Brienne does. It is but a few seconds work to carry his weight from hand to hand on the vertical struts until his fingers grip the balcony floor, though Jaime is surprised to find his right arm aching like a cowson when he does so. He'd forgotten about that. He drops that arm to his side, and glances at the uneven paving slabs below, making sure he spots where he'll land. He is sure he hears Brienne trying to tell him some nonsense about insurance even as he lets go. His landing is perfect, and while he straightens his legs he grins up at Brienne as smugly as he is able. "I knew I hadn't lost my touch," he almost lies, and she simply shakes her head at him, a mixture of appalled, infuriated and if Jaime is not mistaken, just a shade of being impressed to be seen in her.

 "Jaime, you are an _idiot_ ," Brienne hisses down at him, and if their second balcony scene of the afternoon is no less absurd than the first, Jaime finds himself liking this one better.

 "You just make sure you don't spend too much time in there, Brienne," he says evenly, adding a casual wink before he turns to walk around the short perimeter of Sunshine Apartments, to the archway that leads inside. He doesn't look back, though as he rounds the corner he hears the door to olfactory doom slide open. In that same moment, he sees a woman walking ahead of him, and the fact that her footsteps are speeding up is immediately apparent. He follows the back of her bobbing, beautifully curled dark hair around the next corner and watches as she walks into the archway he too was heading for. It is, somehow, no surprise to Jaime that she is waiting for him, a few feet inside the cooler shade to be found there. Jaime falls to a stop in front of her, the sensation of a thousand sharp fingernails running over the inside of his skin, between his shoulder blades.

 He waits for her to speak, though there is an age of being examined by golden eyes that are both warm and coolly calculating as he does so.

 "Brienne was right to speak of the matter of insurance," she finally says, and Jaime finds that initial comment beyond trivial. "If you had hurt yourself, a good man would have had to pay for your foolishness."

 "If I had been hurt, I am wealthy enough to have paid for it myself," Jaime replies, watching those eyes drop shut, as if with knowledge confirmed. It stokes his ire, seeing as he has no idea who she is. "And what business is that of yours?"

 Her gaze returns to him, a blank, a wall. "I work here. I was only coming to see how my employer has been, in my absence."

 "So you would be Missy?"

 It is a peculiar thing, to have anybody look you square in the eyes, with absolutely no aggression evident in tone, or gesture, or body, as they slice you down to size, he finds, as she calmly informs him, "Missandei. To you. Jaime Lannister."

 He leans back against the cooler stones in this pathway, trying to appear as easy as he can there. "That's my name. Don't wear it out."

 "I have no intention of doing so," Missandei tells him, a river of disdain flowing beneath her smoothly spoken words. She takes the somewhat brave step of moving closer, only to enunciate clearly up into his face, "I have long been a friend of Danaerys Stormborn. Though you might know her as a Targaryen."

 It shocks him, this twist of chance, far more than Missandei's judgment. He can hardly blame her for it, for even her close friend will never have any idea of the truth of the matter, without the express permission of another. It has been seen that the Targaryen daughter was safely kept until she reached full age, and given that the fate of her mother is officially unknown, it is only natural that Jaime should still be thought of as the 'Orphanmaker', though the passing of years means that by now it is only known by those few with an unhealthy interest in crime and those directly affected.

 He doesn't move at all, simply saying, "It's good that she has a loyal friend."

 "She has had much need of them."

 "I would be inclined to agree," Jaime offers. This seems to unsettle the woman in front of him, though she soon drops back into an unreadable sort of regard. Jaime can make nothing of her, apart from the sheer intelligence in her eyes, which reminds him of Tyrion, though there the resemblance clearly ends. He still feels as if ants are crawling under his skin. "Don't tell her I'm here, Missandei. It'll only cause her pain."

 A fleeting smile touches her lips at his unexpected request. "And her pain is of concern to you?"

 "Would it surprise you if I said yes?"

 She is deathly still for a moment, before saying, "A few minutes ago, I would have said so. But you are a hider of truths."

 "A liar?"

 "No. You do not deny what you did."

 "I never have."

 Missandei nods slowly. "In your position, most would give excuses, one after another. You offer none."

 "Nor will I," Jaime smiles, impressed by how very astute she is turning out to be.

 She looks at the pale, deep scarring on the inside of his right arm. "But there have long been rumours."

 Jaime just about manages to keep a lid on the laughter that threatens to spill out, just smiling ever more widely. "I'd expect no less."

 "I must ask," Missandei says. "Daenerys' late brother had an _affliction_ -"

 "If we are thinking of the same one, and I suspect we are," Jaime interrupts, "then I can say that the apple didn't fall far from the metaphorical tree. But that is _all_ I can say."

 "I see." With one last, piercing look, she turns away and heads into the courtyard. Jaime follows her, only to see the slender woman turn back to him in a flurry of dark curls. "I would have you swear to me that you are no danger to anyone here, Jaime Lannister," she quietly states.

 "I would swear it on my life. On my brother's too, if it'll help."

 A neatly kept eyebrow rises. "Perhaps I should ask you to swear on your sister's, too?"

 Jaime is too adept at hiding everything to let even a flicker of surprise loose at that. He has known about _those_ rumours for many years, anyway, however erroneous they are now. However true they once were. "If you insist, though I get on better with Tyrion." He steps in and says, "I, Jaime Lannister, swear that no-one here will come to any harm. Well, not on my account." He shrugs. "I'm just here on holiday."

 Missandei lets out a slow breath. "Then I will not tell her. I hope you enjoy your stay." Without another word, she heads off and into apartment 1G.

 It is only when she is gone that Jaime sees they were not entirely alone throughout. Standing at the other end of the courtyard by what might be a small tool cupboard is Brienne, in her dreadful blue skirt and his t-shirt, her feet close together but with her left heel kicked out awkwardly.

 "Brienne?" The word sounds strangled, even to his own ears, a sinking sensation gripping his stomach as he watches her shake her head achingly slowly in response, his name silently playing over her lips, again and again. It is now obvious to Jaime that she'd had simply no idea who he is, and he knows the very moment when realization crashes into her like a truck. She flinches and becomes impossibly tall, her eyes enormous as she stares at him in both confusion and revulsion.

 "Jaime Lannister," she whispers, and damn near flees into 1E.

 The slamming of her door is a sharp crack, and Jaime hasn't a clue as to why it sends a wave of loneliness through him that is almost physically painful. About why the opinion of someone he only met two days ago should even matter at all.

 


	4. Ten Days - Day Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: standard disclaimers apply
> 
> Minor chapter warning: one line might be considered particularly dark in tone, but it lacks detail and is no way intended to cause distress to readers.
> 
> Time: in the minutes leading up to dawn.

**TEN DAYS - DAY FOUR**

 It is no surprise to Jaime that under the lightening sky, he finds Brienne already in the sea. But then, he is also unsurprised that as soon as she sees him approach, the gentle wave of her arms on the surface ceases and she rises to her feet, her aimless floating morphed into something far more powerful as she glares at him from beneath her shaded brow, her face flat and unfriendly. She becomes utterly still, the low undulations of the water around her wildly alive in comparison. She is made something immovable, a dark pillar of judgement, as if driven into the sea bed to withstand aeons of storms and tides.

 _Just for me,_ Jaime thinks. _How charming._

 Yet if Brienne believes she can intimidate him with her blunt and completely unworldly sense of right and wrong, she has another thing coming. Jaime has spent the majority of his life being loathed for one action, and by people far more frightening than she could ever be. So he walks straight into the sea, and though the water seems to almost push him backwards, he does not slow until he is submerged to his waist, only a few feet from Brienne. He gazes up at her darkly, but doesn't speak. If she is to find him so very wanting, he will not make it easier for her to tell him so.

 Now that he is close to her, Jaime can see that she is not unmoving. She is almost shaking with rage, and her words, when they eventually come, are spat out, laced with fury. "I know who you are. What you are. You murdered a man."

 "I think you'll find it was ruled to be 'vehicular manslaughter'." Jaime is blatantly unapologetic. If dealing with his father's scathing disappointment for so long hasn't beaten him, he isn't going to let the parochial views of a fucking island-born schoolteacher bother him. Not one bit.

 "You _killed_ a man, Jaime."

 Jaime smiles so hard it could cut, for she sounds as if she is trying to convince herself of the truth of it. "I know. I was there. I pled guilty. I even went to prison for it, as I recall."

 "For two years!" she hisses, and he can see Brienne doesn't feel his punishment nearly fitted his crime. "You drove a car onto a pavement at high speed and mowed a man down. He didn't even see you coming!"

 "All the better to make sure he didn't get out of the way in time," Jaime bites out, very swiftly finding her idiotically naive tone too much to bear, in spite of himself.

 She gapes at him, all ugly ignorance and blind revulsion for a few seconds, before beginning to walk towards the shore. Yet only five steps sees her turn back to him, confusion writ large on her. "Why?"

 Jaime nearly laughs in relief and at the irony of hearing a question he has heard so rarely, though it is an impossible one. "I can't say."

 Brienne grunts dismissively at that, and moves to leave again. For some reason he can't define, Jaime calls out to her. "Brienne. I'm legally bound not to." She pauses, looking back over her shoulder at him, clearly curious. Jaime lowers his voice, in the early morning sunrise. "But maybe I could speak in hypotheticals."

 There is no hesitation in Brienne as she wades back out to him, and yet a little further, so their eyes are level. She folds her arms across her chest. "So speak to me hypothetically then, Jaime."

 "Okay," Jaime says, breathing deeply and nodding. "Hypothetically, suppose you were sent to stay with a family you knew."

 "A hypothetically disgracefully rich family?" Brienne asks bluntly, an eyebrow raised.

 "Careful," Jaime says, "that chip on your shoulder is showing. And yes." He runs his right arm back and forth through the water at his side, uncertain of just how much to reveal. "But let us say that the family was not as privately happy as people believed it to be."

 "There were rows?"

 "There was _violence_ , Brienne."

 "There's violence in a lot of families. It doesn't mean you can kill a man."

 Her self-righteous tone is enough to set him to bleeding, so Jaime steps into her and whispers harshly, "Do you know what noises a human being can make when they are being burned and bitten where nobody will see, Brienne? When they are being raped? I do. I've heard them. Too many times."

 He makes himself a pillar of his own and waits as a deathly pallor washes over Brienne. She looks to the east, to rising sun, to the waves about them, all the while her jaw working furiously, as if chewing, trying to make the unpalatable palatable. It doesn't seem to work though, yet she stubbornly clings onto her judgement, finally staring at him again, with one more accusation to level. "You could have gone to the police, Jaime."

 "Did you miss the part where this family was disgracefully rich, Brienne?" Jaime mildly asks. "Because I'm fairly sure _you_ made that point."

 He can almost see her faith in the justice system die in her eyes, collapsing like a flimsy house of cards. He has to give her credit though. She doesn't give up, standing square in front of him as she says, "Being that rich didn't help _you_."

 "The sins of the rich are normally hidden behind closed doors, not played out on a city street in broad daylight. Besides, I decided to plead guilty."

 "But why?" Brienne demands. "Jaime, if there were any mitigating circumstances at all, why did you not seek to defend yourself against the charge?"

_How can a fully grown adult's worldview be so fucking narrow?_

 "Why do you think, Brienne?" Jaime spits, her callowness of thought beginning to grate, for all that she appears to be thinking a touch better of him. "If I had brought them into a courtroom, what would that have _meant_?" It is his turn to move back towards dry land, the surge of seawater around his waist, his hips and then his thighs a calming feeling. White froth is washing around his knees when he hears his name, quietly called.

 "Jaime." He spins about in the surf, gripping the wet sand beneath him with his toes, expecting more foolishness and getting far less than he could ever have imagined.

Brienne is holding her hands out before her, staring at them intensely. Jaime can barely hear her above the pale noise of the lapping waves. "Her suffering would have been publicly known." She looks up at him. "Her?" Jaime nods, and Brienne reciprocates. "Someone working there?"

 "There were a few of those, or so I was told, later on. When he felt like it. Whenever he got the urge. The truly rich can afford to pay off almost everybody. I didn't know about them."

 Brienne lifts her fingers to her forehead, brushing absently over the lines made present there by her absorption of these old horrors. But then she drops her arms and holds herself about her waist, as if in comfort. "So. His wife?"

 It is a quiet question, and one he cannot officially answer, so he just drops his head in confirmation. "Hypothetically, she had already suffered enough. Or so it seemed to me, then. Even now."

 "What happened to that...," Brienne pauses and visibly shakes her shoulders, "...hypothetical wife, Jaime? Is she still with us?" She starts to walk towards him, apparently needing to know, and he moves closer too.

 Once again, they are only a few feet apart, but much nearer to dry sands, when Jaime smiles. "Yes, the hypothetical wife is still alive. She might well be a septa now, though she has little time for religion. I just think she has less time for men." He shrugs. "She runs an orchard, and makes cider under the auspices of her septry. It has won a number of entirely hypothetical awards, and although I may be spinning this out of the air, I do believe she has sent me a single bottle of it every year since I left prison." He finishes quietly, his eyes fixed to Brienne's. "For my nameday."

 Brienne almost smiles. "Is it good?" she asks, with just a wisp of the bleakest humour about her.

 "Yes," Jaime tells her, a touch of smugness in him as he adds, "The waiting list for it is years long. Tyrion has always been enraged that I've never shared mine with him."

 Brienne looks at him in solemn silence for a few seconds, and Jaime feels the full weight of a more level-headed sort of judgement, which eventually proves positive for him. "I don't think you should," she mildly offers, saying no more and just turning, pacing off to deeper water. It rests about her hips when she bows down low and glides into it, a handful of long sweeps of her arms pulling her away. Jaime is suddenly exhausted, the idea of sharing secrets being an act that brings relief having declared itself blatantly untrue. Yet as he vacillates in his place, torn between staying and leaving, Brienne flips around and begins treading water. "I thought you'd come here to swim, Jaime?"

 Jaime smiles and strides forth at that kindly worded offer, his thighs thrashing loudly while they spear through the water back to her. "I did. But old things have made me tired." He waits until the last possible sliver of time before dropping himself into the easy waves too, rolling onto his back and feeling the beat of water funnelling over his shoulders and collarbones when he looks back at those bright bulbs around the cheap awning over at Barsena's, now made smaller, then feeling one or other of Brienne's long limbs brush at his waist. He pulls himself upright in the seawater, noting that at least in here, Brienne is a little shorter, even if that is probably because she is bigger. "If I fall asleep, you'll drag me out, I hope?" Jaime asks. "Lannisters aren't the sort to die because they felt a tiny bit weary whilst swimming."

 In truth, the shroud of heaviness is already lifting from him, but Brienne simply nods and laughs softly. "Ten minutes ago, I might've been happy to just watch it happen."

 "What _is_ the weather like, up on that moral high ground of yours, I wonder?"

 "Surprisingly changeable, this morning," Brienne admits, stretching her arms in front of her and starting to kick away towards the nearest buoy. Jaime is just about to follow her when she stops again, twisting back around to face him, her hands beating firmly back and forth just beneath the surface. She stares at the undulations of the water between them, and then at Jaime. "Prison must have been difficult for you."

 Jaime pushes away the sharp remembrance of pain, of blood pouring from an unnaturally folded forearm, of the acrid smell of disinfectant on white tile flooring and floats over to Brienne on his back, propelling himself along with lazy kicks until he passes by her side. He bats his eyelashes outrageously while he does so. "Why, Miss Tarth, are you calling me _pretty_?"

 Her huge shoulders swing when she pushes her arms out, pulling at the water about her as if at solid objects so she can chart his progress, staring at him flatly. "That isn't what I meant. Though I'm sure it didn't help," she adds, shortly.

 "So I am pretty?" he asks, expecting no answer and getting exactly that as he shifts upright. And there they both are. Treading water. "It wasn't," Jaime says, "but given that my family is 'disgracefully rich', it was easier than it could have been. Money paid to families on the outside can help those inside. My brother saw to it. He was very young when he took drugs, but it gave him an in." He pauses, starting to wheel his legs more quickly as he holds the inside of his right forearm out, letting it rest on the water in front of him. "Though it took a few days for the word to come through. This was the worst of it."

 She is a peculiarly graceful sort of dancer, her torso twisting as she moves forward, until her foot slams into his shin. She reacts to his grunt at her toenails digging into him immediately, the long fingers of one hand wrapping around his ribs, making Jaime feel yet more weightless in the water as she dips a touch further into it, and the other cupping his wrist. Jaime looks down, and in the clear water sees her feet batting back and forth in a fury, as if to keep them both afloat, though above the waterline there is no visible sign of her effort. He is, quite oddly, reminded of the idea of a duck, or yet worse a swan, supremely calm above the surface and furiously at work beneath it.

 Whatever Brienne is thinking as she inspects his old injury, he cannot tell, but Jaime is astonished that, while they bob slowly up and down on the incoming tide, he feels the gentle press of a wide thumb over the deep, pale blue scarring, not an ounce of repulsion in it. "I can feel lumps. Pins?" she asks.

 "Twenty-three. Though most of them were replaced later. Prison hospital wings aren't the best," he offers, unsure if the effort of staying afloat or Brienne's simple, practical question is making him short of breath. It gets worse when that same thumb runs along the deeper, more harsh cuts.

 "You got infected."

 "Like I said-"

 "Prison hospitals aren't the best." She flips her wrist about his and the pads of her fingers brush along those jagged marks now, where narrow sections of muscle had been removed out of supposed necessity, and Jaime considers the fact that he doesn't even know who Brienne really is while he sees her eyebrows gather like a hairy, linear storm above those eyes, which are radiating pure concern. But then she lets go, and strokes herself swiftly away inland. "I've swum as much as I need to this morning, Jaime," Brienne says, and there is a dreadful moment where Jaime would allow his body to sink to bottom of the bay, like a stone, never to return.

_Even when I speak the truth, it isn't enough. It can never be enough._

 Yet Brienne, it would seem, does not think so. She slows to a snail's pace in the water, rolling onto her side, peering at him as she moves her head up and down, trying not to let the waves beginning to rear before they come to a breaking roll into her nose and mouth. A small, ill timed surge is spat out before she says anything. "I can make it back to shore first."

 "I thought -" Jaime points at the buoys.

 Brienne's head is shaking as she dips it back into the water, and when it comes up again too; her hair a flat and dull pale curtain, only the ends of which dance around her neck. "I'll wait for you. And I'll still be first."

 Jaime has always loved a challenge, so he can't resist, though the terms seem unfair. "What are you? Fifteen feet from the shore?"

 She's further out than that, but still Brienne spends a good thirty seconds dragging herself back out in Jaime's direction and smiles at him. "I won't start until you are here."

 "So you'll be fresh? Not exactly what I'd call fair," he says, knowing full well that at least he'll be moving at speed when he goes by. She is speaking when he begins his assault on the sands, Jaime believes, but he doesn't hear her, that whiff of mild competition enough to see him bending his own body to his will in a way that hasn't happened so happily in a few years. The draw of water by fingers and palms is enough to centre him, and in the short time it takes for him to reach Brienne, he is close to forgetting about her as well. That is, until a very long arm shoots into the water at his side, the flurry of bubbles against him enough note of the match he has made.

 The rest of the journey is made in silence, though both parties are so close that elbows hit and feet clash, faster and faster, and Jaime worries that he might drown in the arse end of nowhere after all. It isn't far and he does his utmost. But Jaime is aware, as his knees burrow into the still sea-soaked silt, and he rips through the sinuously formed, yet damp and hard-packed bumps of sand just above the tideline with his fingernails, that there is a _woman_ ahead of him, even if he is certain that he would have to look far and wide to find a woman like Miss Brienne Tarth.

Jaime swings his head to his left, the ends of his relatively short hair thudding dully against the beach.

_At least I wasn't alone in finding it hard._

 Brienne is awkwardly shifting onto her haunches next to him, her fists planted firmly into the sand, breathing harshly. She glances down at him wryly. "You're better than I'd thought you'd be."

 Jaime hauls himself up to his own knees. "You cheated." Brienne coughs into a hand and gapes, and Jaime waves one of his own vaguely along the massive length of her, making sure he wiggles it to take in her ridiculous legs. "You have the suit," he gasps out.

 "Yes," Brienne says, actually smiling in the morning sun, made of huge white teeth and bright eyes by it, "That's why I won by two clear seconds." She lifts one of his arms, hefting it in her grip, then rising to her full height and taking Jaime almost that far too. Once they are standing unsteadily together, she damn near smirks at him, her thick lips twitching. "Over about fifty or so feet. That happens all the time, when the opponent has been given a flying start. Doesn't it?"

 "I wouldn't know," Jaime says, plucking up her towel and passing it over to her. She whips it brutally out to one side to lose as many of those fine grains as she can and does what she did when he last watched her swim her way into daytime, though he had missed a step in the operation.

 She reaches behind herself, gathering her thin hair and twisting it into a narrow rope, squeezing it tightly with one hand to expel the excess, before she throws it over her left shoulder and brings the towel into play. Jaime watches Brienne worry at the ends of her hair as he stands up next to her. But the movement of her hands visibly slows and her face clouds.

 "What _is_ it, Brienne?" Jaime groans, and she looks at him uncertainly.

 "I didn't just find out about the 'vehicular manslaughter', Jaime," she says, her skin somehow only now dipping into ruddyness, faint splotches appearing on her face and neck in the ever growing morning sunshine. "There were other rumours. Wilder ones, I'm sure. Rumours of a more...personal nature." She wrings the towel in her fingers as she scrunches her mouth and nose uncertainly.

 The difficulties she is having make Jaime laugh, and just being able to do that at all is like shedding his skin. It is suddenly gone, stopping the tightness in his chest, and he can breathe. "You're talking about Cersei, aren't you?"

 "Yes," Brienne says, looking anywhere but at him, only to burst out with, "You don't have to tell me!"

 Jaime bumps his elbow against hers and drops down to the beach, mis-measuring the force of it a touch. His arse hits the sands a bit too harshly, jarring his back, and he gasps. "Fuck." But then he takes a deep breath and stares up over the hundred thousand miles or so to Brienne's face, which has turned to him in his obvious discomfort. He shakes it off and grins up, something freed inside of him. He doesn't know why. He pats at the sand by his side. "It seems to be a day for my truths, Brienne. Please let me give you another. If you'll have it."

 She sits beside him carefully, her arms ending up wrapped about her knees, which are drawn in, close to her chest. It is clear that Brienne might not want to hear what he has to say, but for Jaime, something has clicked. This is the time. At least for him.

 Brienne is leaning infinitesimally away, and Jaime feels it as he takes a deep breath and says, "The Cersei rumour was true, some time ago." He hears a deeply indrawn breath next to him, and Jaime sees Brienne wince harshly. "But not so much now. Or at all. My brother suspects it, but other than that, nobody knows."

 For a very long time, they sit there, the only sound to be noted the washing of waves, close to their feet. He more feels than sees Brienne's muscles gradually tighten as she thinks, though the slight flaring of her nostrils is the only warning he gets, before she spits out, "Why would you do that to her?"

 He hadn't considered that she would reason it to have been that way, yet only a moment of reflection makes him understand why she might. Even if the idea of Cersei needing defending from him is beyond lunacy. "Wind your neck in, lambikins. It wasn't what you think."

 "Really?" Her frown is quite foul now, but Jaime knows why.

 "Of course it wasn't," he says, his own face starting to twist at the allegation. "We loved each other. Or so I thought."

 "How -?" Brienne falls silent, her toes scratching into the sand beneath her, making furrows there. But then she takes in a deep breath and looks at him warily. "You loved her? For how long? And _how_?" she asks again, the words tumbling out of her in an ungracious bundle.

 "Yes, I _did_ love her," Jaime asserts, with a surprising amount of calmness, all things considered. "For a very long time. It took years to peter out, I'll admit. Prison did some of the damage, but with hindsight, she didn't mind having an ex-con for the occasional bit of rough whilst her first marriage lasted. After Robert died, I believed that we might finally have something -"

 "What, Jaime?" Brienne interrupts, her voice turned oddly soft, yet immutably hard. "She's your _sister_. What did you ever think you could have with her that wasn't there already?"

 "A bit of damned loyalty would've been nice," Jaime mutters, picking up a small handful of sand and lobbing it into the water with a scowl in the face of Brienne's rather too simple and correct logic. "For a change."

 "Oh, no." Brienne breathes that into the air, seeming to hardly want to speak further, a concept Jaime is tempted to agree with, though she does nonetheless. "Did you only ever...were you only ever...with -"

 "Are you trying to ask me, in your spectacularly fumbling way, if I've only ever fucked my sister, Brienne?" Jaime asks, shortly. "Because the answer to that would be a resounding yes."

 "Even _now_?"

 "Stop gawping at me like that! And yes, even now." He turns away from Brienne slightly, finding the muddle of confusion and pity flashing over her features damning. "By the way, I don't need the sympathies of a moralizing virgin giantess, so can it, will you?"

 Brienne says nothing for a few seconds, and when she does, her voice is muted. "I'm twenty-six years old, Jaime. I think it's safe to say that even _I'm_ not a virgin."

 A thousand cutting remarks scroll through his brain, each one more scathing than the last, but Jaime looks back at her, finding her sitting in a strange state, her shoulders hunched a little, a tiny frown playing over her large lips. Not exactly distressed, he'd guess, but not wildly happy either. "Please tell me that the person in question was at least a cousin or something. That could go some way to putting us onto a more even footing."

 That frown of hers twitches into a wide smile and she shakes her head. "I'm afraid he wasn't, Jaime."

 "So not a brother? A septon? A horse?"

 "No!" she laughs then, flicking her towel at him. "He was just a man." Then she shifts in the sand to face him more directly, her humour settling into a more piercing regard, her eyes shockingly bright in the light of the morning. "Jaime, if you have been done for some time, why haven't you found someone else? And why," she says, far more pointedly, "did you take a last-minute trip to another continent, just when your sister was having a large party for her wedding anniversary?"

 "Ah, you caught that, did you?"

 "There was a link to a site called 'The Spider's Web'? It had pictures of the 'special event'. So many pictures," she adds, clearly unable to fathom why they would be interesting in the first place.

 "Do you think it went well?" Jaime asks mildly, though he honestly doesn't care.

 "I wouldn't be the best one to ask," Brienne says, "but it all seemed very...glamorous?" She narrows her eyes at him. "And you aren't answering me."

 "Good catch, Miss Tarth," Jaime grins, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out. He beats the back of his right heel into the sand, forming a small hollow beneath it as he tries to work out where to begin to reply. "I didn't want to go to the party, it's true, but I don't love her now. Well, not as I used to. She is still my sister, but she isn't the person I thought she was. " Then his voice dares to fail him, to make him weak. "I'm not sure she ever was." Even he can hear the pathetic vein of wounding in that last, so he continues. "Besides, her new husband is another bloody politician. I _hate_ politics." Brienne exhales in soft amusement at his side and he stares up at her. "Brienne, if you had the means to go anywhere to escape an evening or two stuck in a large building full of back-stabbing, power-hungry liars, and I am including both my sister and my father in their number, I should say, wouldn't you get out too?"

 If she seems momentarily appalled at his characterization of his relatives, including one he has confirmed as his lone former lover, Brienne can't seem to help but agree. "I probably would, Jaime." Again, she appears to drop into thought, and if her exterior gives the impression that it is a ponderous thing, Jaime is starting to know otherwise. She looks at him, her eyes travelling his face clearly and slowly. "Why do you think you haven't moved on, Jaime?"

 "It was me, not letting go, at first," he admits, his cursing at her for seeing his weaknesses so easily kept firmly in his head. "I used to dream of her, every night. Sometimes I still do now. But none of that was real, and once I saw it, I realized that I have no idea what to look for. She was my mirror, or I believed she was. She used to tell me that we were born together, and we would die together. I took it for a promise it wasn't."

 Jaime doesn't expect the reaction that brings forth. Brienne buries her face into her towel, though that small scrap is nowhere near large enough to hide the shaking of her ribs, or the fact that she is laughing behind it. Quite loudly, in fact. Jaime pulls himself back up to sitting and pokes her in the arm with his forefinger. Hard. "I'm pouring out my darkest secrets and you -"

 "I'm sorry, Jaime!" she shouts, though it is muffled. Her face slowly emerges, her eyes shining and her lower lip bitten with restrained mirth. "I _am_ sorry, Jaime, but...you do know that sounds like it has been quoted directly from the cover of a teen romance novel? Right?"

 "Just how many 'teen romance' novels do you think I've read, Brienne?" he bursts out, indignantly. "And _does_ it?"

 "None. And yes, Jaime. It does," she confirms, with an awkward little shrug.

 "So how many of them have _you_ read?"

 "Very few. I think they're terrible. But I work at a school, remember?"

 He flops back down onto the beach, flinging his arms out wide. "And just like that, my tragic love-life is morphed into a two-dragon paperback of questionable literary merit. Why thank you, Miss Tarth! I reckon your students must simply _adore_ you."

 "They don't _dis_ like me," she mutters, only to hide another grin behind her towel as she shakes her head. "Oh, look at you, Jaime."

 "I won't bother. You're doing enough of it for both of us." She is too, he thinks, but her only reaction to his observation is to roll her eyes and drop her towel so she can wave a hand from side to side in his direction.

 "I mean you go through the world, looking like _that_ ," she tells him, "leaving a trail of confidence and arrogance behind you, like a...a...an arrogant slug, and -"

 Jaime's lifts his head sharply. "I'm a _slug?"_

 "No! I meant...because of the trail -"

 "Because of the trail, I'm a slug?"

 "I'm not good at this, Jaime."

 "And so say all of us," he smiles. "I'm a slug. Go on. I can't _wait_ to see where this ends up."

 "You're not a slug! All I mean to say is that you appear to have everything. Look at you!" she insists. Then she finishes more quietly, "But underneath it all, you're a shambles too."

Jaime would like to be angry at that all too honest assessment, but it feels absolutely correct, and anyway Brienne's face is clouded with an almost endearing mixture of concern and maybe even fondness, so again he sits up, making sure to engage his eyebrow at full tilt as he does so. "And just how does a slug shamble, lambikins?"

 Brienne's eyes slam shut and she grimaces in obvious discomfiture at having been so rude, and if Jaime doesn't think it in the slightest, he isn't quite up to letting her know it. He watches those pools of blue flicker back open, though now they are more troubled. "I'm really sorry if I've offended you, Jaime. This was just...a _lot._ I should probably get back." She stands then, from Jaime's viewpoint for miles, swiftly swiping at the backs of her thighs to remove approximately half of the beach, which has stuck to her there.

 She is just about to leave, and fairly hurriedly too he'd guess, when Jaime reaches his arm up at her side. "Do you loathe me now? You might be right to."

 Brienne freezes, staring at his hand. "No," she says, clasping his fingers firmly in hers and pulling him upright. "Somehow, I think I like you better. A little."

 If it chimes within Jaime as an offer of, perhaps, a sort of friendship, he ignores the truly pitiful rush of gratefulness that follows. He is barely willing to acknowledge it to himself, let alone Brienne. "Warts and all?" he asks, instead.

 "You have warts too?" she grins, and hands him her towel, gesturing that he should probably brush the rest of the beach from himself.

 It is only when he is close to done that Jaime looks at her again. Brienne is gazing in the direction of Barsena's little restaurant, where the scalloped edges of the striped canopy flutter in the breeze, though he isn't sure she is actually seeing it. "I know it was 'a lot', Brienne. Was it too much?"

 She turns to him as if called from a distance. It takes a good few seconds for her to focus, but then she smiles honestly at him. "No, Jaime. And I suppose it explains the balconies."

 If he feels a wave of relief ripple through him, he doesn't mention it either, instead nudging her arm with his. "That it does," he tells her unashamedly, starting to walk towards the pathway, and just before her feet start to hiss through the sand when she lopes along to catch up with him, Jaime finds he doesn't mind hearing her softly mumble the word, "Shambles," in his questionable wake.

 


	5. Ten Days - Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: same
> 
> Time: around 10am, London time.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY FIVE**

 The walls are dark and mottled, not the dry red sandstone that sheathes the outside of the small building, but a harder granite, imported centuries past to ensure those shackled inside could not attempt to carve their way out with their iron restraints. There is but one tiny window, set up near the ceiling. What little light and air it lets in is cut further by the thick metal bars set in the frame, each one no more than a couple of inches from its neighbour. Though time has corroded them, the attempt by the local historical society to keep their deterioration in check with a generous coating of black paint hasn’t quite worked, brushstrokes bubbling up from the surface and rivulets of rust colouring the courses of stone beneath like blood. The same can be said of the metal posts driven into the wall, though only a couple of them still carry the thick rings through which, in the distant past, the chains of the truly unfortunate would have been threaded.

 “How can it still smell of death?” Jaime asks, more to the pervading dampness of the stifling air in the chamber than his brother, who is standing at his side.

 “I guess this is one of those places with a lot of it to share,” Tyrion answers quietly, the laughter of children ringing in through the open door discordant.

 Jaime reaches out and touches the wall closest to him, feeling nauseous when his fingers come away wet with condensation that somehow clings there doggedly. “The walls are weeping,” he says, turning and stepping out into the harsh sunlight.

 Tyrion follows him, hurriedly pushing his sunglasses onto his face, no doubt feeling a touch fragile, having spent much of their unplanned holiday thus far having the kind of late night fun that he tends to favour, when not absorbed in his work. Still, he rustles up a hungover grin. “I sometimes forget you have a tendency towards the simply poetic, Jaime,” he says, “though I wouldn’t give up on your day job just yet.”

 “I don’t intend to,” Jaime smiles back, meandering down to the shore and sitting on a dried out log, the top of which has been planed flat to fashion a low bench.

 “Good to hear,” Tyrion tells him, seeming to find the near lack of clambering necessary to sit next to him a pleasant thing.

 Jaime picks up a pebble and flings it carelessly out into the water, only to let his arm drop to his knee, flexing his fingers. Naturally, it doesn’t pass Tyrion by. “Are you alright, brother?”

 “You can stop asking now, Tyrion.” Jaime shrugs carelessly. “I was more desperate to escape our father’s descending thumb than anything, or anyone, else.”

 “I’ll regard that as a vague truth,” Tyrion says lightly. “After all, father would take you back into the fold in a heartbeat, now you've spent decades regaining some scraps of respectability. I think he is finally tiring of trying to convince me to take up the family mantle.”

 "And what would our aunt make of that?"

 They grin at each other. Genna had been grudgingly offered the position covering all extra-continental Lannister business the year before. Jaime and Tyrion were agreed that it had taken approximately ten seconds for her to ditch her married name and accept the opportunity, in which she seems to be thriving. "Oh, I think she'd love to work with you, Jaime. You could sit on the floor next to her during meetings and she could stroke your hair when she wants to lend proceedings that villainous, Tywin Lannister flair."

 "I love that father thinks she is merely a stop-gap, until one of us steps up," Jaime smiles.

 "I love that he's wrong!"

 “Me too. I think I'll pass on being Genna's evil foil,” Jaime tells him. “Father can sing if he thinks he’ll ever drag me into the business.”

 “And that’s where you have a distinct advantage, Jaime,” Tyrion laughs. “I think he would find dragging you along by the hair a bit trickier.”

 “I still can’t believe he did that,” Jaime mutters, the memory of a family meal, the day before Jaime’s delayed, but inevitable imprisonment, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. As clear, in fact, as the consommé that went ignored in his dish, when it came to pass. It is the only occasion he can remember when his father’s underlying, steely control burst out in a very open spilling of the coldest anger and violence. Jaime had been dumbfounded, frozen into immobility, as Tywin Lannister hauled his youngest son in, in front of his guests, Tyrion’s frustration at his being found subsumed by their father’s apparent inability to understand where he went wrong, or why this ungrateful, thirteen-year-old child would not appreciate his care for his future as he flung his short son into his seat at the table, dishevelled, bruised and dirty in his misery.

 “I can,” Tyrion winces. “My scalp still hurts when I think about it now.” Yet before Jaime can offer yet another apology for his inaction that day, Tyrion points at his scarred wrist with a grin, still being flexed on his knee. “And if I may pre-empt any more of your tiresome grovelling, my concern wasn’t based on father at all. I simply thought that you might have found visiting a shithole prison difficult.”

 "It’s hardly the fucking same, Tyrion,” Jaime chides. “There’s a world of difference between being forcibly enslaved and murdered, and my freely admitting to what I did.” He forces his hand to a stop, and the slightly bizarre and undoubtedly selfish sensation of long-gone handcuffs disappears. “It isn’t the same,” he insists, when Tyrion grins at his doing so. Jaime glances at the small building they have just left. “You don’t think our lot had anything to do with this, do you?”

 “Not directly, no, but no doubt they traded with the bastards who did,” Tyrion mutters. “Besides, I believe our forebears used their own methods to cow and generally terrify whole populations into submission.”

 “Yet one must take immense pride in the Lannister family name,” Jaime dryly intones, his impression of their father so close as to set Tyrion to chuckling.

 “I almost feel sorry for him,” Tyrion laughs. “In the past, he would’ve been able to burn whole villages on a whim. In these days, he can only try to control us.”

 “Tell that to Varys.” The unpleasantly obsequious man has been hanging around their father like a bad odour for years.

 Tyrion laughs yet louder. “Are you kidding me, Jaime?” He leans in, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “Varys owns 'The Spider’s Web', and therefore every rich family in the world! He churns out small rumour and gossip for the masses, as a simple warning to the great and not so good. “I publish, and you will be damned,” I once heard him say to one of his less appealing subjects. I have to hand it to him. He is the greatest game player in the world. I quite admire him.”

 A yawning chasm opens up in Jaime’s stomach. “Then why hasn’t he…,” his voice trails off as he tries to understand.

 “Why hasn’t he put some of our more unsavoury secrets out there?” Tyrion says. “I wouldn’t worry, Jaime. He likes you, after a fashion. He likes me more, of course, but then who wouldn’t?” If Jaime is obviously sceptical, Tyrion just brushes it away with some blunt facts. "Who the hells do you think ensured your safety back then, Jaime? Me? I was thirteen years old, and in case you haven't noticed our height differential yet, a dwarf. I got the money to Varys. He saw that it got to the right people. Or the wrong ones, depending on how you look at it."

 "So where were you, the night before I was sentenced?"

 "After I saw Varys, I tried to skip continents."

 "You did what?"

 "No offence, Jaime, but I knew damned well what your heading off into the clink meant for me. I had no intention of staying."

 "Where did father catch up with you?"

 "He was waiting on the dockside when the coastguard brought me back in. He was so angry!" Tyrion relates the event with sheer glee, though Jaime suspects that has all been painted on thickly with hindsight. "Seriously, Jaime, never stowaway on a merchant vessel. Even the smaller ones have better security than you might think. They always catch you in the end!"

 They sit in contented silence, Tyrion still given to the occasional chuckle as Jaime mulls over this information, which certainly serves to shed a new light on Varys. But then movement catches his eye, and further along the beach, Jaime sees Brienne attempting to herd about a half a dozen small children, including Elia, together. He waves at the girl, who sticks out her tongue in return. Brienne seems to notice it and crouches, appearing to tell the child something of manners, though this only elicits a diluted version of Elia’s reaction to her mother, two days before.

 “Fuck my old brown boots,” Tyrion breathes. “And all the others too, just for good measure.” Jaime glances at him, only to find his brother staring at his right arm again. It almost physically jolts him when he sees that his fingers are playing over his scar tissue the way Brienne’s had in the warm sea. “You told her,” Tyrion guesses, far too accurately. “You told her everything.”

 “It just fell out,” Jaime grimaces. “She was being judgmental and irritating. And good,” he adds, begrudgingly.

 “It just _fell_ out?” Tyrion hisses, leaning closer. “Can you trust her, Jaime? With matters you haven’t even told me?”

 “I spoke hypothetically, Tyrion. And yes, we can trust her.” His brother is looking at Jaime as if he has grown another head, so he offers what he thought he never would. “I can do the same for you. Tell you. If anyone has earned the truth, it's you.”

 Tyrion immediately slaps his hands over his ears. “No! La la la!” But then the laughter returns, edged with a hint of wildness, as his hands drop back down. “Jaime, it’s good that you’ve found someone you can speak to, but it can never be me. I spend too much time with Varys, and the man is invariably sober, more’s the pity. Though I fear he’d be a miserable drunk.” He shrugs. “And what I’ve never heard, I can’t repeat.” He winks. "I like him, but I would never be so foolish as to trust him."

 Tyrion watches Brienne himself then, as she stoically bears being used as a climbing frame by at least three children. “You really told her about Aerys?”’ He shakes his head and huffs in wonder. “And she doesn’t hate you for it?”

 “Well, she went from not minding if I drowned to saying that she liked me 'a little' better than she thought.”

 Tyrion grins from ear to ear. “She likes you. And it’s plain for anybody with half a working eye to see that you like her too.”

 “Of course I do. She’s kind. And stubborn,” Jaime tags on, just to give it some balance.

 “Nooooo,” Tyrion drawls. “I mean you _like_ like her.”

 “Don’t be a fucking idiot, brother. We only arrived a few days ago.”

 “Yes, but it would completely explain why you followed a competent, adult woman around the courtyard yesterday evening, offering to help.”

 “She’s been very understanding, given the circumstances.”

 “She was lighting candles in small wall lanterns, Jaime. What were you going to do – carry her box of matches in sombre procession between them? It’s not as if she’d need your help to reach them, is it?”

 “She can help her height no more than you,” Jaime says, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible, though his brother’s teasing grates, not least of all because some of what he is saying is blatantly true.

 Tyrion isn’t fooled. “Is that a touch of defensiveness I hear?”

 “I didn’t realize we went holidaying to a damned schoolyard,” Jaime counters.

 “I wouldn’t fret, Jaime. There’s hope for you passing puberty yet, it would seem.”

 “Funny,” he says, shoving Tyrion gently.

 He rocks in his place, but nonetheless continues to look at Jaime with building glee. “You like Bri-enne, you like Bri-enne!” he quietly sing-songs, bouncing his heels against the log, which garners Tyrion nothing but a softly worded warning.

 “I should like to remind you that I was once renowned as a coldblooded killer. And oh, look, there’s a big thing right there that I could submerge you in wholesale. What’s it called again? Ah, yes, I remember. _The sea.”_

 “I’d rather you didn’t do it here, Jaime, what with this bay being designated a mass grave already.”

 Jaime drops another pebble he had picked up to throw, thinking the gently rippling sea made suddenly darker in the piercing sunshine. “This is one of the bays of bones?”

 “It is,” Tyrion says, nodding over to where Ellaria sits with her toddler, digging in sand a few feet away from a small dark obelisk. “The memorial stone is just that. A stone.”

 It’s a sickening thought, that there are still so many little bays around this eastern sea that even the fishermen will not go into, not wanting to awaken those taken by the horrors wrought in them so long ago; determinedly leaving lost souls to their rest.

 There is a child’s laughter, further along the pebbled sands, and if Jaime now understands why not so much as a toe has been dipped into these waters this morning, he still finds the contrast between the silence of the sea and the happiness of the younger visitors jarring. “Do the locals mind the children digging and playing here?”

 "No, as I understand it. Brienne,” Tyrion says, emphasising her name, his eyelashes beating girlishly, at which Jaime just rolls his eyes, “told me earlier that the local historical society decided that a bit of joy wouldn’t go amiss here. And if the children learn anything from it, I suppose they have a point.”

 “This lot seem to be a little young for the task,” Jaime says, though the sight of Elia sitting on the edge of a newly-dug hole, deep enough to rest her feet in as she gabbles to the red-headed boy opposite her, is heartening.

 Then any sense of proper reflection in him is knocked askew as he sees Brienne, minus the now-scattered children, reminding him of their awkward talk at Barsena’s as she leans slightly back from the admittedly handsome man standing in front of her. Her heel kicks out, scrabbling for purchase in the sand and she retains her balance, though she is glowing red as she apologetically shakes her head. “Who is that? And is he hitting on her?”

 “Sure, Jaime,” Tyrion chuckles, “you don’t like Brienne at all.” He glances over to the pair. “Oh, that’s just Oberyn, Ellaria’s other half. He arrived yesterday afternoon. He probably is hitting on her, to be fair, but he takes a no as written. If it helps, he kind of hit on me, last night. At least, I think that's what that was.”

 It doesn’t help at all. “He did what?”

 “Don’t look so horrified, Jaime! I just think our new Dornish friends like a bit of novelty, now and then.”

 “You are not a fucking novelty, Tyrion,” Jaime bites out, a flash of rage in him. “And neither is she. And this is hardly the bloody place for it!”

 “Calm the fuck down, brother,” Tyrion smiles. “And, as a very definite novelty, I hate to inform you that, even were she not some kind of giantess, Brienne would still be one too. She’s been standing out here for how long now? Three hours, and look at her! Still neat as a pin.”

 Jaime can only see her hair hanging untidily in sandy, wet tails down her back, barely fluttering in the breeze as she laughs at him, in the light of dawn. “That's not her,” he whispers. “That’s just what she lets people see.”

 Tyrion raises a quizzical eyebrow before he twists away to take the scene in more fully. “Have you already fucked her, Jaime?”

 “No,” Jaime says, slapping his brother’s golden curls.

 Tyrion’s reply floats back over his shoulder. “Well I think you should.”

 “Shut up, Tyrion.”

 Tyrion won’t. “Ah,” he sighs, whilst Brienne turns from Oberyn. “It would seem that the lovely Ellaria is the one smarting most about this cruel rejection.” It is true that the older woman’s shoulders have slumped, even if she doesn’t appear too disheartened, her digging with her middling daughter going almost uninterrupted between the memorial and the brightly coloured pushchair in which her youngest babe sleeps. Jaime is surprised that he fails to think on that idea for more than a moment, taking in instead the sight of Brienne standing awkwardly in place until Tyrion waves at her. She makes her way over to them then, and Tyrion unsubtly shuffles over to leave a space in the middle of the sun-bleached wood. “Come and sit, Brienne. You must be tired. It’s like an oven out here!”

 She does, sitting gingerly between them, her knees bare, flushed red, and pressed firmly together. She wrings her hands lightly in her lap for a few seconds, only to rest them over her knees, the wave of her fingertips drumming at her skin the softest of drumbeats. There’s a slow hiss of sand as her heels fan apart, and Jaime watches as the toe of one plimsoll rises just a touch above the other. Then she clears her throat. “Do either of you need –“

  _“No!”_   the brothers drone out, in unexpected unison, making all three of them laugh softly.

 Jaime nudges Brienne’s arm and nods in the direction of Oberyn, who is staring at their group in open curiosity. “Are you okay, Brienne?”

 She smiles politely at the Dornishman, which raises Jaime’s hackles some, but then she smiles at him with more warmth. “You saw? This is the third year they’ve asked,” she admits, her gaze full of embarrassment. “And they are always very polite when I say no.” Yet then a pale eyebrow arches as she stares out at the bleak, shining water. “This really doesn’t seem like the right place for that sort of question, I have to say.”

 Tyrion’s resulting peal of laughter scythes through the air and if Brienne finds it confusing, Jaime’s brother dispels it soon enough. “That’s almost exactly what Jaime said!”

 Brienne smiles at them both now, “As far as I can tell, Tyrion, he isn’t always right, but on this I agree with him.”

 “Swap in ‘ever’ for ‘always’ and I’m in, too,” Tyrion grins.

 Jaime leans forward to glare at him. ‘I’m right here, you little shi-“

 “Shhhh!” Brienne interrupts, pushing them firmly back into their properly seated positions with wide palms as two pairs of small feet somehow thunder in their run towards them. “Hello again, Elia! Gregor!”

 Elia, being the older, insofar as Jaime can tell, arrives first, jumping up and down in front of them in sheer excitement. “Miss Brienne, Miss Brienne! Gregor found something in the sand! Look!”

 If there is a moment of sheer horror in Jaime that it might be human bone, there is none to be seen in Brienne. She simply holds her hand out, flat and steady, as the boy comes to a halt, puffing at the effort. “May I see it, Gregor?”

The boy nods enthusiastically and drops his treasure into her palm. If Brienne’s relief at no ancient horror emerging from a tiny fist is unmarked, neither Tyrion nor Jaime, having had no real experience with children, are as restrained. Brienne smothers their gasps by clearly asking the young ones, “What do you think it is?”

 "Gregor says a button, but I think it's an earring!" Elia shouts. Both children are nearly shaking with excitement. The volume of their voices starts to draw the attention of others along the beach. Oberyn and Ellaria begin to make their way over, Oberyn picking up their toddler and carrying her along, tickling her belly, whilst Ellaria pulls the pushchair through the sand behind her.

 Brienne smiles kindly at the children. "An earring was a good guess, Elia, but Gregor is right. It is an old button."

 "How old?" Elia shouts, just as Gregor timidly asks, "Can I keep it?"

 "I'm not sure to both questions," Brienne says, brushing away some of the sand caked onto the front.

 "May I take a look, Gregor?" Tyrion asks. "I've studied some history." With Gregor's silent assent, Brienne hands the 'treasure' over, and Tyrion crouches over the button, slowly inspecting the design there. Ginger locks eventually creep across his fingers, and ever so gently, Tyrion pushes the boy's forehead back with a lone thumb and a smile. "I think this is very old, Gregor." He turns to Brienne. "Possibly from around the time of the Charter."

 "Really?" Brienne asks. "I wasn't sure."

 "So can I keep it?" Gregor whispers, his eyes wide.

 Even Jaime knows that places such as these were virtually wiped clean of evidence of cruelty, indeed of anything, at the time of the Charter of Men, leaving almost nothing behind but submerged bones. He watches Brienne offer an alternative. "I think we should go and ask Mr. Toraq, in the visitor centre, Gregor. He might want to put it on display there, so that other people can see what you've found. Would you like that?"

 If the child seems momentarily downcast at not getting to take his find home as a souvenir, the idea of sharing it with others becomes infinitely more interesting once Brienne adds that if Mr. Toraq keeps the button here, Gregor's name might be put on display with it, as its discoverer. She is about to head off to the small orange building on the ascent from the bay, a brace of youngsters whirling about her, when Tyrion stands. "Can I come along?"

 Brienne peers along the bay, her features suddenly twisting with concern. "Would you mind taking them, Tyrion? Gregor, Tyrion knows more about the button than me, and would probably like to speak to Mr. Toraq too. Is it okay if he goes with you?" All parties seem unconcerned at this change of affairs, and Tyrion heads off instead, with Oberyn and Ellaria trailing the happy group at a more leisurely pace than the one Jaime's brother is excitedly being dragged along at.

 Brienne is simply gone then, without another word, loping away along the firmer sands, close to the tideline. Jaime runs to catch up with her. "What's wrong, Brienne?"

 When he reaches her side, she just nods to the rocks at the far end of the bay. Only then does Jaime notice the figure of Walda, dressed in the same black that had shrouded her upon their arrival. Even at such a distance, she looks dejected, her shoulders slumped, a white hanky clutched to her nose. She is softly rocking back and forth in her place.

 "I think she hasn't had the happiest of lives. I...I don't know the details," Brienne says in a hushed voice, though there is no need. Only a couple of children are anywhere near, Gregor's shiny button having made them redouble their efforts to find gleaming treasures of their own. They have their own concerns. "Yet every year, she comes here, at least once, even if she feels it very deeply. Her husband never bothered to come with her."

 That last is coloured with an unspoken and deep, almost shocking, vein of dislike. "Did he hurt her?"

 "No," Brienne says, "I don't think so. She loved him. In fact, I think he was fond of her. I just thought he was as creepy as the seven hells," she admits, with a shrug.

 Jaime is about to joke about her actually confessing to such possibly unwarranted unpleasantness, but Brienne is staring again at Walda, who seems now like a truly ancient goddess in her place of mourning, all untamed, unbound feminine roundness and care and grief. Brienne shakes her head regretfully, Jaime thinks at herself. "I should have known it would be harder for her, this time around." She turns to him again, reaching for his bicep.

 Her fingers are warm and again gentle, and though it shouldn't be a surprise, it still is. Jaime clears his tightened throat. "So, is there anything I can help you with, Brienne? Is there anything you need?"

 Her head reminds him of a nodding dog toy in the back window of a car traversing particularly bumpy terrain for a few a seconds, but then she purses her lips and looks him straight in the eye. "As a matter of fact, today there is, Jaime," she smiles. Her free hand waves around this end of the beach, to which the remaining few groups within their party have managed to limit themselves. "The coach space has been booked by another party in about a half an hour's time. Do you think you can encourage this lot along? We need to be gone by then."

 "Walking and talking? At the same time? I'm not certain, but I think I can do that, Brienne. Just about." It is his turn to nod in the direction of the young widow. He removes those comforting fingers from himself, grabbing Brienne's shoulders and twisting her until she is facing the other end of the bay. He leans in. "Unless you need me to deal with the children myself. Then I'd demand a catapult."

 He pushes her away, and after a mildly stumbling step, Brienne looks back at him briefly. "Shambles," she mutters, though any derision in her is overwhelmed by something more appealing. "Thank you, Jaime." She breaks into a run at that point, and even though Jaime can't make out anything of her arse under the haplessly badly styled and wildly synthetic blue of her skirt, he watches her run the whole good third of the mile to the rocks, the movement of muscle under skin taking his attention wholly, the length of her stride at full pelt amongst the longest he has ever seen anywhere, let alone on sand.

 It is only when she stops, climbing the six or so feet of large boulders to sit facing Walda, that Jaime remembers that his task is time-sensitive, so if he wants to stay and watch, he walks away instead, towards the nearest family.

 The Mormonts don't seem to have even realized that they were down one particularly red-headed child, but the news of their son's great achievement sees them moving off in the right direction in a hurry, complete with their hastily rolled windbreak, a teenager whose gaze never leaves the screen of his phone, and a flushed, squalling babe in a frilled pink sun bonnet.

 It isn't far to the zo Prahans, who, he is freely told, always holiday this close to home. They actually have a working barbecue, and if Jaime expects some resentment at his asking for them to put it out, he meets nothing of the sort. Zhanaara happily removes the last edible items from it to be stowed away in an enormous, close to filled, foil carton that might comfortably house a small cow. She scoops handfuls of sand over the glowing charcoal, and then, just to make sure, she throws a large bucketload of seawater over it. "We will be there," Zhanaara assures Jaime, somehow finding the time to smile indulgently at her slightly rotund husband, who is already chasing what appears to be an inhuman number of very young children about on the sand, though she seems to pick up around fifteen items and make them disappear in the time it takes for a single child to be gathered up and contained, in one fashion or another. "Two sets of twins. A lone son," she explains without even looking at Jaime, but then she spares him an exhausted glance, "And my sister's three children too!" She laughs and waves her hand at him, a turquoise pair of soiled, child's trousers flapping in her grasp. "We will be there, as I said."

 Jaime utterly believes Zhanaara, yet he can't help but offer, as he is sure Brienne would, "Do you want me to carry anything to the coach?"

 The tried, yet clearly incredibly capable woman shakes her head, having looked swiftly about her. "No. Go. I'm busy," she says, waving him away and ignoring him as her arms flick out with ever increasing speed.

 Jaime does, and only looks back once after minutes have passed, when he starts to climb a low dune where he suspects he will find the lone couple on this visit. While his toes sink into baking sand, he sees a mass of children corralled into two twin pushchairs, and three more at arm's length, as a newborn is tied to a chest, all evidence of their having been there almost magically gone. Even the enormous sun umbrella is folded, and placed to one side of a wire tray holding a pile of other items Jaime probably couldn't even name. From afar, it feels hectic, yet loving, as one child is lifted to a hip and the enormous family group head for the coach. If there is a small ache at him in seeing that kind of family, Jaime knows it is not for him. For a split second, he thinks of his mother, and misses her, yet knows it could _never_ be for him.

 He trudges up to the top of the dune, only to turn his back as soon as he arrives. Jaime stares doggedly out to sea. "It's time to head back to the Sunshine Apartments coach!" he shouts, hoping to catch the attention of anybody else he might have missed, as well as the obviously enamoured pair flailing in the sandy hollow.

 Jaime considers the message delivered and heads for the parking bay. Gathering everyone onto the pink bus, with its hand-painted pictures of the sun along the sides, is no real effort. In fact, the mood is almost celebratory as the Martells and the Mormonts finally come aboard, both Gregor and Elia being hoisted into their seats by their proud fathers, despite the lack of need. As they wait, Oberyn sticks his head up over a seat two rows in front of Jaime. "Lannister, both of them will be named with the find!"

 "Good for them," Jaime replies, amiably enough, though the charm of children in general is quickly wearing very thin.

 It would seem to be much the same for Tyrion, who shortly after hauls himself up into the seat next to Jaime with a grimace. "Couldn't you get us our seats at the back?" he grumbles, and Jaime grins at the reversal of mood since their journey to Sunshine Apartments when they arrived.

 "No, I'm afraid Zhanaara and her brood of eighty-five thousand got there first."

 He watches Brienne slowly walk past the window, her arm wrapped around the unhappy shoulders of Walda, as Tyrion makes his views clear. "I don't know what you think, Jaime, but that brief exposure was enough to convince me that children are bloody hard work. When we get back, I'm getting drunk."

 Jaime chuckles. "Have you got all of the necessities?"

 "I really should get one of those 'I'm with stupid' t-shirts, one of these days," Tyrion mutters. "Jaime, it's _me_. You could land me in a mud hovel, peopled only by goats, a hundred miles from anywhere, and I can guarantee you, I'd still find the 'necessities'. You in?"

 Jaime nods. "Why not?" he says, though he is distracted by the partial sight he has of Brienne sitting Walda in the seat at the front, next to her own. Then she walks halfway along the aisle, her height at least an advantage when it comes to counting heads. Reassured that everyone is present, she disappears and the coach rumbles into life as Tyrion gets Jaime in the ribs with a vicious elbow.

 "My name is Jaime, and I like a _girl!"_ he whispers.

 "You leave her the fuck alone," Jaime hisses back.

 This only makes Tyrion's temper improve to the point where he begins to laugh himself, though he tries his best to keep it in, nodding instead with a semblance of the utmost seriousness. "I see what this is, Jaime. Whilst I may not have been privy to...whatever the hell _that_ was before, I understand. We're past Jaime Is Crushing Stage One, where you follow a girl around like a newly imprinted duckling. Now we've hit Jaime Is Crushing Stage Two, where," he adopts a semi-mechanical voice and starts jerking his arms around like a robot, _"lady must be defended._ Honestly, you are such a doofus, brother. It's almost fucking adorable, if I may say so."

 Torn between anger at the teasing, which Jaime knows is just a defensive reaction, a hangover from years of the hiding of old, and discomfort at the newness of what seems to be, in a Lannister sort of fashion, a giving of approval, he looms over Tyrion, wiggling his fingers and issuing a half-hearted threat. "I will crush your vocal chords, little brother, if it'll hush your mouth."

 Tyrion just groans and taps repeatedly at Jaime's chin until he sits back up again. "No, you won't. And why bother, anyway? Once we've both had a few glasses of my purest green, neither of us will be able to talk. It seems to me a far more pleasant way of going about the task."

 "Purest green?"

 Tyrion smiles. "I haven't named it yet. It _is_ very green, though."

 "I can't wait," Jaime offers dryly, even if he views the idea of trying another one of his brother's invented cocktails with some trepidation. He has lost a good few nights of his life to them, in the past. His lack of enthusiasm buys him another elbow, and the rest of the short journey back becomes a battle of elbows and laughter, that reminds him very much of their travels in their youth; when Cersei would sit apart, watching both of them, Tyrion in particular, with an air of disdain, as they joked and tickled their way across Westeros, in chauffeur driven luxury or on private planes.

 The moment the coach shudders into stillness, however, Tyrion is gone, virtually charging along the aisle, determined to go make some purest green with the smallest of delays. He follows Brienne and Walda off the coach directly. Jaime isn't so hasty, content to watch the seats empty around him. He is in no hurry to do anything, and it's been a while since that has been the case. Only when he is the lone one left does he disembark, to follow his brother.

 Jaime slowly walks into the yard, pausing in the cool shade of the arch on the way. When he steps back under the beating sun, there is a brief sensation of his being inside a termite mound, with people scurrying up stairwells and along landings, all intent on completing tasks of their own. But then they are all gone, doors closing gently or with resonating slams.

All except one, though he hadn't been on the trip.

Sitting in a wheelchair at the far end of the enclosed space is an older man, his face, a weather-worn tan, cast in a curious smile. “You must be Jaime Lannister,” he says, “Come and sit.”

It is an order, nothing less, and if Jaime baulks at it, he nonetheless does so, for it is obvious who this must be. He paces over and takes a hand that shows signs of once having been massively strong, though now it is frail, the man’s skin like tissue paper, the thicker ridges lent by decades of labour unnaturally loose over wasted muscle.  “And you would be Lennart Goodwin.” They shake hands, and if the older of them doesn’t hide his inspection of Jaime’s scarring, a forearm twists into view that Jaime also finds enlightening.

On wrinkled skin, a blurred blue tattoo that would once have been black, a viper’s head curling down from beneath the end of a pastel-striped, elbow-length shirt sleeve, tells Jaime all he needs to know. It sets him at his ease. He sits next to Lennart, on the wall about the flower bed, and smiles. “So, Lennart. How about that decades-long, failed experiment, when some fool bureaucrats thought it would be wise to shove every single convicted Westerosi criminal into the same damned place?”

Lennart lets loose a wry rasp of amusement. “Harrenhal Supermax. What could go wrong? Fucking idiots.” He taps lightly at his chest. “Armed robbery. Released 35 years ago, into the supervision of one Selwyn Tarth,  Senior Probation Officer. Nothing since.” Dark eyes turn brightly to Jaime’s. “You?”

“I think you know,” Jaime chuckles. “Vehicular manslaughter. Out nearly twenty years ago. Not so much as a parking ticket since.”

Lennart nods slowly and sits in silence for a time, simply looking at Jaime, who finds the weight of that flickering gaze, coming as it is from someone who has seen a place that frequents his nightmares, quite the burden. In the end, Lennart nods again, more sharply, as if in acceptance, only to drop into a troubled frown. “I don’t know what you told Brienne, Jaime, and I don’t want to know, but two nights ago she was a mess, even if she tried to hide it. But then she was fine again. Her father changed my life. Made me a better man. I owe it to him to ask this question. Did you tell her the truth?”

“Yes.” Jaime watches the older man absorb that lone word, before dryly asking, “And was the father as insufferably good as his daughter is?”

“Fuck, yes!” Lennart laughs suddenly and freely now, his torso shaking in his wheelchair. “I found him arse-achingly boring at first, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. He was one of the biggest men I ever met. We got over our differences, in the end. Turned out he was a lot of fun, on the sly.” He settles and points weakly at Jaime’s arm. “Qyburn’s work?”

The change of tack surprises Jaime, but he understands why this might be of interest to the older man. He rests his forearm on his thigh and flexes his fist a couple of times, before dragging a finger along the longest and deepest scars. “He took out some. Infection control, I was told.”

“Needfully?”

Jaime grimaces in uncertainty, his memories of the enormous hospital wings hazy at best, and agonizing at worst. “I remember there being some pus, but not how much. They never really listened there, when prisoners asked them to lay off the sedatives, did they?”

Lennart looks at him with some sympathy. “What a crying shame one of his captive ‘patients’ got to him minutes before his arrest.”

“The only good thing the Mountain ever did,” Jaime says.

“Damn straight. Still, your arm looks strong,” Lennart tells him.

“It takes a fair bit of work, but I don't mind.” He smiles as Brienne appears, as if from nowhere, coming over to stand protectively by Lennart. "Will Walda be okay?" he asks her.

Lennart answers him. "She'll be fine, Jaime. Whenever she comes back from that place, she hides away until the next morning, when she's as right as rain again. And Missy always sees to it that she's well. Or Brienne," he adds, patting at the hand resting on his shoulder with genuine affection. Jaime watches the two exchange a fond look before Lennart turns back to him. “Well, if you need to keep up the good work, there's a gym next door and there are plenty of cycling trails in the nearest canyons.”

“I’m afraid the ‘trails’,” Jaime raises a wry eyebrow at Brienne, who just stares blandly back at him, “would be no good to me. I’ve never ridden a bicycle.”

 _“What?”_ The response comes from both of them, loud and incredulous.

Jaime is unconcerned by it. “When I was growing up, I had two quadbikes, four horses," he can feel himself biting his lip for a second, then settling for the overly lofty sneer of the uber-wealthy, "and maybe a jetski.”

Brienne descends into a series of short, derisory snorts that she tries to stifle by pinching her nose and Lennart simply watches her do so, his mouth agape, as if she is acting in a way he is entirely unused to seeing. "If it helps, Miss Tarth," Jaime offers, "I was once given a new bike. But you see, I threw it down a well on the family estate."

That stops her dead in her tracks, winning Jaime a truly damning glare. "Why, Jaime? Why would you throw such gift down a well? Or need I ask? Not enough gold plating?" she asks bluntly.

He decides not to rile her any further, though he could. Instead, he fails to mention that the bodywork of his beloved bike was, in fact, painted red and gold. He also drops the superiority, which he knows she finds infuriating, and simply explains. "My father refused to have one specially made for my brother, Brienne. He was about five at the time, and I wanted him to learn with me."

"Oh," she says, her face softening grudgingly. "I see."

"Sorry to pop yet another one of your 'Jaime Lannister is the Overlord of Evil' balloons. I know how attached you are to them."

Brienne scowls at him, her give simply gone as soon as it had arrived. "Shut up, Jaime."

There is a twisted, if gentle, cough from the man they both appear to have swiftly and completely forgotten, though he is sitting virtually in between them both. Lennart, it would seem, is biting the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh, and it takes him a couple of attempts to clear his throat and find his equilibrium. Then he asks Jaime, "Do you still want to learn?" He looks up at Brienne. "My old bike still works, right?"

"Yes," Brienne says, "though I would have to check it. I haven't ridden it since last year. It wouldn't take long, I guess." She glances at Jaime's arm. "Do you want to? _Could_ you?"

Jaime had long since given up any ambition to do so, but there is just the right mixture of disbelief in his abilities and challenge in her tone to make his mind up on the spot. " _Could_ I, Brienne? You get me a bike. I'll ride it."

"I will," she says. with a hint of a grin as she turns to leave. Yet then she stops and turns back. "I don't suppose you have a sweatshirt or anything with you, do you?"

"It was the _first_ thing I thought to pack when I was told I was coming somewhere unbearably warm."

Brienne huffs and starts walking towards her apartment. "Give me a minute."

Once she is gone, an awkward silence descends, which is broken, thankfully, in fairly short order by Lennart asking, "So?"

"We're just friends. We go swimming. We argue. We laugh. Sometimes," Jaime says, only then realizing he is speaking in rapid bullet-points.

It doesn't faze Lennart, who just leans in closer. "Whatever you are to each other, in the absence of her father, I have to be the one to issue the standard warning. Don't hurt her, Jaime." His eyes become flinty, though not lacking some edge of warmth. "I may not be the man I once was, but I can still pick up a good bit of speed in this thing. I'll run you over like a dog in the street, if I have to."

"I don't hurt friends, Lennart," Jaime says, reining in any urge to tell the man that unless they're on a slope, he'll outrun him, then admitting, "even if I don't have that many close ones. And do you _do_ that?"

"No," Lennart grins, "and I'll take your word." They both relax as Brienne re-emerges, throwing him a grey top that is so blastedly neatly folded, it doesn't even come undone in the air before landing on his thigh with a gentle thud.

"Change," she tells him, walking straight over to what must be the tool cupboard. So he does, and if, by the time he has pulled his shirt off, she is looking back and shaking her head at his doing so right there, Jaime merely shrugs in reply, shaking out the offered piece of her own clothing and putting it on. It is as soft as the green t-shirt he had offered her a couple of days ago, if not softer, and far thicker too. He blows the wave of his fringe away from his eyes as he pulls his head free and catches sight of his brother standing on the landing above them.

"Tyrion, this is Lennart," he says. "Lennart, Tyrion."

"Yes, yes, we've met," his brother says impatiently, pausing to offer a politer hello to the owner of Sunshine Apartments, which is duly returned. Then he holds out two glasses. "Hurry, Jaime. My purest green won't stay at the perfect drinking temperature forever, you know."

"I'm sorry, Tyrion. I'll have to ask you to make me another in a while. I'm going to learn to ride a bike."

"You're finally giving up on your protest?"

"It's been nigh-on thirty years. I think father will have gotten the point by now, don't you?"

Tyrion cackles from on high. "Excellent. Don't you dare put foot to pedal until I'm settled on the balcony, Jaime. This, I _have_ to see."

Jaime watches his brother happily meander back into 3A and slowly breathes out, his cheeks puffing as he turns to Lennart, who appears to be thoroughly enjoying himself too, if in a far quieter fashion. Thin fingers reach down to take off the brake on his wheelchair, and as Lennart spins it around just a touch to manoeuvre himself around Jaime, he answers Jaime's unspoken question. "I own this place, Jaime. Do you think I'm going to waste the opportunity of watching some rich bastard making a fool of himself?"

"Some rich bastard?"

"You know what I mean, kid. Noooo," Lennart says, rolling himself out towards the archway and the street beyond, with a level of good humour and eager anticipation that might even eclipse Tyrion's.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Jaime grumbles to himself, dropping his head into his hands. His despair is but momentary, however, as he hears the sounds emerging from the tool store. "Brienne," he says, "are you hiding in there so I can't watch you using a bicycle pump?"

"I thought I told you to shut up, Jaime."

He can feel her blushing from here. "That was ages ago."

The thump of her feet can be heard as she stands. "I'm done now, anyway." She wheels an ancient, but sturdy looking contraption out of the cupboard, lightly testing the brakes as she does so.

She stops and stares critically down at her own legs, as far as Jaime can tell, and then at his. "Like what you see?" he asks, but Brienne is frowning. She shrugs and starts to make a minor adjustment to the seat height with deft fingers. Jaime stands and paces over to her. "There's no _way_ I'm that much shorter than you, Miss Tarth."

"You're not," Brienne mumbles as she clips it back into place. "But your legs are a bit shorter than mine."

"Huh." Jaime's mind stumbles to a dead stop for at least three seconds for a variety of interesting reasons, and when he shakes himself back to thought he has to dash to catch up with Brienne, who is already wheeling the bike into the archway.

When he reaches her side, she squeezes gently on the brakes again, which squeak in protest. "Brakes," she says, stating the obvious, before pointing to the small dial on the handlebars. "Gears."

"It has 'gears' written on it, Brienne," Jaime grins. "Next you'll be telling me where the pedals are."

She just looks at him as if he is hopeless as they reach the narrow street. “If you must know, I’ve only ever taught two people to ride a bike. They were both –“

“Immensely stupid?”

 _“Eleven_ , Jaime,” Brienne says, pursing her lips in an obvious attempt not to smile. “They were eleven year old children.” She straightens the bike, pointing it towards the far end of the lane. “Care to take a seat?”

“Did the children survive?”

“They were just fine,” Brienne chides, shaking the bike frame slightly. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Hardly,”’ Jaime says, yanking the bike from her grip and settling it at his side. He mounts the thing with a flourish, but finds himself ignored as frantic calls to wait, accompanied by the sound of ice cubes tumbling against each other, draw Brienne and Lennart’s attention up to the balcony of 3A.

“Has Tyrion bought a coolbox?” Brienne asks, only then noticing that Jaime is aboard. She places her hand gently against his lower back.

Jaime answers, even if his mind is again overtaken by the sensation of enormously long fingers, firm and warmly supportive as they are on him. “He's bought a mountain of them in his time. He likes to have the option of inventing the odd new drink. He hates the freezer in our apartment though. It’s too tiny, for his tastes. The poor thing has been stuffed full of ice cube trays and gel packs since yesterday afternoon. It’s making a noise like your coach.”

“Jaime, I told you we have a chest freezer, full of ice cubes, specifically for guests,” Brienne whispers.

“I know. I just thought it was funny. He was getting really frustrated, trying to fit them all in.”

They laugh together quietly then, while Tyrion shouts down, asking Lennart if he would like some purest green as well. “Afraid I can’t, these days, Tyrion,” is the reply from the street. “It messes with my damned meds.”

Tyrion peers down with pity. “That’s a shame. Still, I’ll have one for you.”

Lennart strokes his patchy grey stubble, his laughter laced with bleak humour. “Just for future reference, that’s never any fucking comfort to the one not drinking.”

“It’s always well-meant though,” Tyrion calls back, as he pulls himself up onto his seat, picks up his glass and rests his feet atop the bright red lid of the coolbox. “Even if it is just a poor excuse for the lushes amongst us to drink more!” Both men turn back to Jaime, Lennart slouching happily enough in the supple leather of his wheelchair and Tyrion pressing his face eagerly against iron railings. “Well, brother, what are you waiting for? Get on with making an idiot of yourself, will you?”

Jaime turns to Brienne with a smile, his spine now seeming aflame beneath her hand, though he doesn’t show it. “Any last tips for the damned?”

Brienne grips the handlebars with her free hand as Jaime puts his feet on the pedals, wiggling them as they find their places. “Don’t go too fast at first. You might crash. But don’t go too slowly. That’ll make you unstable.”

“That’s as clear as mud,” Jaime says, as she starts to push him forward, walking at his side.

“You’ll know,” Brienne says warmly when, with a last, none too gentle shove, she lets him go free.

And he does know. Within two turns of the pedals, Jaime has passed through unstable and in under a half dozen, feels completely secure. He looks back at Brienne, the triumph of it spilling out of him. “This is easy!” he shouts.

His confidence is not matched by Brienne. “Jaime! No! Don’t! -”

He turns at the feel of a small thud, and what follows is one of the least convincing spills, possibly in the history of cycling. It happens so slowly, that he can see that he had unwittingly changed direction, veering to the right and into the base of a lamppost. He tips over sideways even while Brienne shouts the word _‘feet’_ repeatedly, but Jaime just tries to pull his arm in some as he lands in an uncomfortable pile of his own embarrassment. “Fuck you, Tyrion,” he grumbles as he sits up on the pavement, his brother’s gaiety already an echoing chorus, rolling up and down the lane.

Heavy footfalls see Brienne crouching at his side in moments. She lifts his arm to check it, but Jaime jerks it out of her grip. “I’m _not_ eleven, Brienne,” he says, twisting his limb to look at his elbow. It is grazed, but not heavily. “No real damage done,” he tells her, picking at the tear in soft grey with a slight grimace. “Wish I could say the same about your shirt. Sorry,” he mutters.

“I can mend it, easily enough. It doesn’t matter.” Brienne rises, bringing Jaime up with her. “Besides, I bought it at the airport,” she lies, making him smile.

“How is my shirt doing, by the way?”

“One more wash should do it,” she tells him, righting the bike as well. “Do you think you’re done for the day?”

“Not by a country mile, lambikins,” Jaime says, hopping back over onto the saddle. “I’m not the kind to be stopped by a tiny scratch.”

“As you like,” Brienne shrugs. She walks back to stand by Lennart who, Jaime sees, looks as happy as a pig in shit at his having taken such a pitiful tumble. “Just keep your eyes on the road?” she advises, prodding lightly at Lennart’s arm in mild rebuke, which is roundly ignored. Jaime raises an eyebrow in thanks for her pointless intervention before pushing off again, this time fixing his gaze firmly where he’s headed. It only takes a few seconds for him to get close to the end of the road, which isn’t wide enough for him to turn, so he engages the squealing brakes and reverses the frame around with less style than he’d like. Jaime is convinced he looks like a waddling penguin as he swings the whole thing about at the crossroads, an impression confirmed as more likely by the continuing hilarity tinkling down from the balcony of 3A.

Jaime studiously ignores Tyrion as he rides the whole length of the lane, and promptly decides that he isn’t quite willing to make another ungainly about face with his brother in unruly attendance. So he rides shakily around the corner instead, figuring that the relatively flat roads in the small town shouldn’t be too taxing a challenge.

Barely a few pedal strokes have him hearing the unmistakable thunder of Brienne running to the end of the road. “Jaime!”

He brakes again, this time remembering to deploy his feet on the aged, cracked asphalt when he stops, and looks back at her. “Yes, Brienne?”

If he expects some more ill-formed advice, it isn’t quite what he gets. Brienne just stares at him sheepishly. “This street is part of a one-way system,” she says, waving her hand to indicate a route around Sunshine Apartments, longer sweeps of her arm showing it runs from inland to the beach. “It goes the _other_ way.”

“Good to know,” Jaime mutters. The road is empty, so he rides his first full turn, unsteadily but with no real problems. “Are you always this bossy?” he asks Brienne mildly as he pedals back past her.

“Yes,” he hears her reply, with some dry humour. “And you should be on the right, over here.”

He laughs as he picks up some little speed, shifting from one kerb to the other, and heads towards the sea-front. It being a shade after lunchtime, the roads are pretty quiet, those locals who haven’t retired for the traditional afternoon nap clearly regarding him as merely another, slightly eccentric, Westerosi tourist. He smiles at the elderly Arlyn, who is selling his ice creams to some of those on the fringes of the beach, though the glance Jaime gets when he passes him by speaks only of the viewing of an act of madness as Jaime veers around the corner, picking up yet more speed as he gets used to the machine beneath him.

Mere minutes are enough for Jaime to begin to feel entirely comfortable on this strange new beast, and by his second circumnavigation of the loop, he begins to notice details of this place he hadn’t bothered to before. The back of Barsena’s, like probably every other eaterie in the world, isn’t half as pretty as the front, the rear of the building marked by dark gates, opening onto a dull concrete yard. He is pleased to note it is at least fastidiously clean, with the lids of the giant, drum-like bins there firmly secured. What seems to be a civic hall is a touch run down, the mirrored windows covering its four floors held in silver metal frames that are pockmarked with salt stains. And red and white striped awnings _everywhere_ , he thinks with amusement. Whoever produces them might not be a Tywin Lannister, but Jaime thinks he’d like to find them and shake them by the hand anyway. Clearly, their sales team is on point.

He is wondering, absolutely wistfully, what it would be like to be a benevolent King of the Awnings in this far-flung place, when his feeling of being carefree is shattered by yet another bloody _child._ A boy, who is probably in his early teens, sweeps past Jaime on a bike with comparatively tiny, bright red tyres, far too much mocking laughter, and the apparently supernatural gift to be able to hop his bike wholly from gutter to kerb, and back down again, at will.

Child or no, Jaime is unwilling to be left too far behind, so he starts to pedal faster. He almost catches the lad when somehow, red wheels turn more rapidly. At the next junction, the boy twists into a spectacular sideways slide that leads to a stop. And the little bastard sits on his bike, convulsed with yet more laughter, pointing squarely at him. Jaime slows to a halt with his toes. Given that the brakes on this thing sound like the wailing of sirens, it seems unwise to give his new foe, of sorts, more meat on which to chew.

And there is something Jaime suddenly wants to know, after all. “Do you speak the Common Tongue?”

“Yes,” the boy says, though he folds his arms across his chest a touch defensively.

“Good. Would you teach me to do that thing you just did? I’ll pay you for your time.”

The child seems suspicious at that phrase, and it only takes a moment for Jaime to realize how badly that might sound. “Only the main streets. Nowhere else. Where everyone can see you are safe,” he adds. "We can go and ask your parents first, if you want."

Kharfan, as he turns out to be, then nods happily in agreement, and seems to decide that although he should be cautious, he will be safe enough with Jaime on the roads of his home.

For Jaime, the next half an hour or so is a lesson in humiliation. He doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would, as Kharfan’s initial bravado turns out to be as much a façade as the one Jaime has been wearing for most of his life. Once he understands that this is the first time that Jaime has put foot to pedal at all, the boy becomes very attentive, riding alongside him and checking that each spill, which arrive at a frequency of one every couple of minutes, have not caused hurt. Jaime, for his part, listens to Kharfan, almost revelling in his outright wonder that something so intrinsic to his whole young life has happened to this strange old foreigner so late. And if Jaime falls off Lennart’s ancient bike a lot, and he is sure he has bruised a hip, he at least saves Brienne’s shirt from further permanent damage. So they practise, and when they are done, Jaime asks how much this impromptu tutoring will cost him. The boys dark eyes twinkle as he considers the matter, eventually asking for ten dragons, but as Jaime only has twenties on him, he hands one over, considering it money well spent, nonetheless.

Kharfan grins down at the note, then up at Jaime. ”I will be here tomorrow if you need to learn more, Jaime. At the same time. In the loop.”

“Just in the loop, Kharfan,” Jaime says, with more reassurance, waving a finger from beach to cliffs. He smiles at Kharfan as he watches a purple note being shoved enthusiastically into a pocket. Then the boy is gone, red tyres whirling around a corner at furious speed, after the sending of a jaunty wave.

Jaime spares a thought for Sunshine Apartments, and the large woman who set him on his way from there, with dreadful advice and a warm hand. "I suppose I should get back to you, Miss Tarth," he says to himself, as he lazily pushes off from the pavement. He’s not quite certain about his new skill, but he is determined to give it a good showing. His last spin around the loop in this town is close to languid, yet as he hits the proper entry point for the lane where he had begun, he pushes harder on the pedals, sweeping in from the bright, burning sunlight into shade in a manner that he feels to be glorious. Though it doesn’t quite turn out that way.

He looks up as he enters the narrow street. Lennart is gone, though for what reason Jaime can barely work out. He is sure his earlier fall was enough to have brought him a week’s worth of mirth, however.

And yes, he is going too fast. Even as he slides the back end of his bike out, Jaime can feel it going wrong. It is well measured though, to some degree, the chain-links brought to a halt just inches from desperately neat ankle socks.

The matter is him. Jaime tries to balance the old bike, but he has tipped it over too far, the weight of himself on the frame too much. His right leg starts to twist, a pedal biting into his calf, and it would give, were it not for Brienne, who grabs him roughly by the arms. She hauls both man and machine upright, and doesn’t seem overly amused at having been put in a position to do so.

If Brienne isn’t, somebody else demonstrably is. Tyrion practically hoots down from his high place. “Oh, my fucking _life_ , Jaime! Did you just clumsily skid to a stop in front of a _girl_ on a _bike_? Stage three! Right there! _Classic_ stage three!” As his brother dissolves into a bout of outright hysteria, Jaime can feel Brienne’s fingers tense on him.

“Stage three?” she whispers.

“I’m not sure you want to know,” Jaime replies, even if he suspects she already does. Tyrion could hardly have been more obvious. He glares up at the balcony, though he addresses Brienne with a quiet sort of curiosity. “You told me Walda likes baking. I’d say he seems…pie-sized, wouldn’t you?”

Brienne shakes her head, though it seems to be more at herself than anything. Then she sighs and peers up at Jaime’s brother. “I’m not normally one to throw stones about height, as you’ve probably guessed, but in this case…it does look like he’d make a good pie, to me.” She turns to him, the smile thick in her voice alone, and absent from her features as she says, “Do you think we should ask her to make one?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's chapter will arrive at approximately midday, GMT.


	6. Ten Days - Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nowt, etc.
> 
> Time: around 12.00 GMT.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY SIX**

 

Jaime straightens his towel out on the low, wide wall surrounding the flower bed and puts one of the small tubs he is carrying underneath the leaves, in the shade. Then he stretches himself out there. It isn’t terribly comfortable, in truth, but he is balanced enough, and if twigs keep scratching at his left side, he doesn’t mind. The sun is warm above him and there are clumps of a flowering plant dotted around and about, the blooms red and pleasantly fragrant. He rests his own miniature carton of ice cream on his bare chest and peels it open, fumbling blindly for the little wooden spoon he knows he’ll find inside. That done, he winnows out a lump of the dark dessert, staring at it as if in confrontation. “You and me, chocolate. This is it. Total war.” He drops the morsel into his mouth and it spreads like a song across his taste buds. A sickeningly sweet song that he quickly decides he can no longer stand.

 “You win this time,” Jaime mutters, not caring if he is conceding defeat too easily. He tucks the spoon back in and reseals the pack, dropping it to the wall near the top of his head. It is in the direct sunlight, so his wily foe will perish soon enough. He closes his eyes and everything is pink behind them. There is something relaxing about simply basking in the sunshine and he can’t remember the last time he did it for anything more than an hour or so. He lazes in place, listening to occasional buzz of winged insects; but this time only for a minute, maybe even less, as a metallic clank comes, as if from nowhere, close to his knees. Jaime looks up, squinting as a round figure bustles about next to a newly opened camp chair and sits herself down in a bright sundress, covered in pink flowers. "Walda, isn't it? Are you feeling better today?"

 "Yes. Thank you. Jaime," she smiles, pulling a teaspoon out of the woven straw bag leant against the leg of her chair and waving it at him. "And if you aren't going to eat that one, I will."

 "I took a mouthful," he says in warning.

 "I'm sure I'll live," Walda says, leaning forward and flattening her palm out with a little grin as Jaime feels about above his head, picking the warming cardboard up and passing it to her.

 She plucks it away and opens the lid. "Is this Arlyn's chocolate ice cream?"

 "Yes," he admits, "He and Garla were having their daily sports 'chat' when I went to get it."

 Walda sweeps up a small spoonful of melting ice cream to eat. Then she hums blissfully. "This is wonderful." But there is a diminutive frown that grows as she looks at him unashamedly, from top to toe. "But you didn't think so. Just how many of these have you eaten today, Jaime?"

 Jaime doesn't bother lying. "That was the start of my fifth."

 Walda frowns, though it is a mere wisp of one. "This is my first since I arrived! How can you eat so many and still look like that?" She shakes her head, dismissing the question. "It doesn't matter. So, why are you doing this, Jaime?"

 "What do you mean?"

 Walda shrugs as she spoons some more dripping ice cream into her mouth with a delicate moan of contentment, and makes Jaime wait. "Why would you spend so much time laying yourself out so prettily directly outside of my apartment and not mean anything by it?"

 Her eyelashes flutter as Jaime damn near falls from his place on the wall, his arm waving frantically in the air as he fights to maintain his balance. "What?"

 "I'm in 1F, as I'm sure you know," she proclaims brightly, "so just how many cartons of ice cream did you think you'd have to eat before I'd notice you?"

 Jaime yanks his head about and sees just how close the doors to the two apartments are set, before looking back at Walda. Her eyes are blue as well, if pale, and wide with her own kind of innocence. Yet if the youthful widow seems to have set her sights on Jaime, the impression is only momentary, as good humour overtakes her when he, for once in his life, struggles to think of a single word to say in reply, and flaps his mouth like a goldfish out of water. "I don't mean it, Jaime, though it is a shame," she sighs wistfully, only to grin impishly at him. "It isn't as if I hear you and Brienne bickering shamelessly when you both come back from your morning swims, or anything." She happily swallows another dollop of ice cream. "You know. Much."

 "Bickering shamelessly? Is that a thing, Walda?" Jaime asks.

 "Of course it is, dear," Walda tells him. She deposits her spoon in her tub with a contented smack of her lips. "Have you pulled on her pigtails yet?"

 Jaime narrows his gaze at her. "She doesn't wear pigtails, Walda. And I'm not sure what you're trying to tell me."

 "Yes, you are," Walda giggles, no apparent ill-thought for him in her at the lie. She grasps the bent metal corner of her chair arms with her little fingers, keeping the carton steady, and bounces forward a few times like a loud and extremely ineffectual rabbit, settling closer and leaning in, quickly pointing her spoon at him. "You _like_ her."

 "Not you as well!" Jaime groans, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, before lifting his head a touch. "Yes, Walda, I do like her company. I think she's a good woman -"

 "Hmm-mm, hmmm-mm," Walda hums, the tiniest nods accompanying those slightly patronising sounds of agreement. "Of course you do. You're just _friends_."

 "Precisely."

 "So how often do you follow friends around when they are lighting candles? At a distance of about a foot? Hmm?"

 Jaime grimaces. "Those bloody candles are going to dog me for the rest of this holiday, aren't they?"

 Walda sighs, her bosom heaving in a manner that might not be out of place in an overwrought period drama. "I think it's romantic."

 "You think it's _what?"_

At his obvious incredulity, she seems to spend a moment or two reconsidering her opinion, her face caught in a wave of twitching, her thin eyebrows waggling, and her spoon dancing in the air as if it were the baton of an orchestral conductor. But then she shakes her head, and as the soft waves of her brown hair settle on her shoulders, she says, "It's sweet. _Very_ romantic."

 Jaime rolls his head around to face her directly. "Walda, I think that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and you haven't met my cousin Daven."

 "Does he look anything like you?"

 "I wouldn't know, underneath all of that hair."

 "Never mind," Walda mutters, her tentative spell in this new field of fishing for men swiftly curtailed, at least for now. Jaime likes to think she might become more eager, as time goes on. "So you are just friends with Brienne?"

 "Yes."

 "Good." She taps her spoon on the lip of the ice cream tub. "So who _did_ you buy the sixth ice cream for? You know, the one you hid in the greenery?"

 "For Brienne." Jaime narrows his eyes at Walda's thrilled expression. She appears to think she's won an argument he wasn't sure they were even having. "My _friend_."

 "I see." Walda nods sagely then, and Jaime realizes her trap is not yet sprung. "Oh well, best you give it to me then," she sniffs, her fingers waggling in the direction of the hidden tub. "It must be close to melted by now, and as you are such good friends, you must surely know that she has gone shopping. And that she doesn't eat it?"

 "What do you mean, she doesn't eat ice cream?" Jaime sputters. The wet card of the tub slips from his fingers, he is caught so off-kilter by the thought, though Walda is prepared, and catches it easily enough. "Who doesn't eat ice cream?"

 "Me.” Brienne slowly walks in through the archway and paces over, depositing two heavily-laden, orange canvas bags to the floor when she arrives at Walda's side. The look she sends Jaime's way is blandly sceptical.  "So we _are_ friends now, are we?"

 As he isn't certain quite how much she's heard, Jaime aims for an air of complete insouciance. He folds his hands back under his head, ignoring the sound of bending twigs and the feel of further resulting scratches. "I'm not sure, Brienne. I don't know if I can be friends with someone who refuses the joys of ice cream. I'm afraid that's a red flag, right there."

 "Is it now? A red flag? That sounds bad," Brienne says, almost threatening to break out into a smile as she folds her arms decisively across her chest. "Why would that be?"

 If his shrug is not quite as careless as he would choose, Jaime figures that the need for balance is more important, and lets lose a mildly disappointed sigh. "I'm pretty damned sure that anybody who spurns ice cream is emotionally unstable."

 "But Jaime, maybe I just don't want to keel over dead when I'm older," Brienne explains, as if to child, her mouth twitching. "You know. Old. Like you."

 "Oooooooo!" This far too interested exclamation brings Jaime's attention straight back to Walda, whose gaze is flickering between himself and Brienne as if she is watching the world's most intense game of racquets. "Please don't mind me. I'm just," she pauses to weakly scoop up some all too liquid ice cream, "eating this. Which is delicious. Go on."

 Jaime decides to roll with it, looking back up at Brienne. "Old like me? How bloody ancient do you think I am?"

 Brienne is silent for a moment, before she seems to think it fine to play along. Given her 'research' on him, she probably knows how old he is anyway. "It's very hard to say, but there's definitely some grey going on, I hate to tell you." Long fingers stroke at the side of her chin, and she peers down at Jaime in clear mock-pity.

 "I shall warn the family undertakers immediately. Or," Jaime groans as he sits up and leans forward on his elbows, simply enjoying looking all the way up at her from a slightly closer viewpoint, "just take my extremely distinguished stubble into the water with me in the morning, and win at swimming. Again."

 That remark bites more than he thought, it appears, as Brienne breaks out in a full-scale scowl, her words blunt. "It doesn't count as any kind of victory when you tickle me, Jaime."

 His response is forestalled by another _. "There was tickling? Did I say that out loud?"_ Both of those questions fly out of Walda at speed, with both the high-pitch and sheer force of a car alarm. He can feel Brienne's head turn in time with his, and Walda tries desperately to deflect them, attempting twice more to scoop up the ailing ice cream. "Like I said, don't mind me." Even Walda gives up then, paying them no mind as she licks the remnants from her little spoon and reseals the tub. Then she pointedly looks at their new companion. "Brienne, did you tell Jaime about Lennart's get-together?"

 "No, she did not, Walda," Jaime says, waiting until Brienne's eyes turns back to his. "Maybe she thinks I'm too old."

 "No." Brienne stares at Jaime, her competitive streak eased, if only to some degree. _"She_ thought you wanted to be on your own, as you keep saying, though I’ve noticed you're not very good at it." She gestures gently around them. "But if you like, there will be an informal gathering here in the early evening. For dinner."

 "Do I have to bring food?"

 "You can, though there should be enough. Speaking of which," she says, blowing out a rough breath as she tiredly picks up the bags by her feet, "I should get on with it."

 Jaime watches Brienne disappear into her apartment, and as the door to 1E closes, Walda stands as well. "Me too. I have a lot of cooking to do." She leans over Jaime, and pats delicately at his bare shoulder. "Tickling? That's _wonderful_ , dear." Walda folds up her camp chair with a sharp snap, picks up her bag and bustles off with an indulgent smile.

 Jaime shakes his head once she is gone, not quite willing or able to see what Walda does in his friendship with a large schoolteacher who has the most stringent ideas of right or wrong he's ever encountered, outside of a dull septry, years ago.

 He is about due to meet his young tutor, in any case, so Jaime retrieves his shirt from the branches of the shrubbery and Lennart's bike to go and meet Kharfan. They spend most of the next hour or so just riding around and talking, and if Jaime again falls off, it is only the once, and it serves to confirm that Lennart's old bike might not be the ideal vehicle on which to learn the art of the wheelie. Nonetheless, it is a satisfying lesson, with Kharfan describing Jaime's progress as 'very good', which is as complimentary as the lad can ever seem to bear to be. Jaime even ends up learning how to skip the bike from gutter to kerb and back again, rendering Kharfan's magic of yesterday a touch more mundane.

 The hour ends with the boy holding out a hand hopefully. Jaime smiles in recognition of the going rate of learning to ride a bike having gone from ten dragons to twenty a lesson in a day, but considers the fault his own. He doesn't begrudge Kharfan the second purple note he scrunches into a ball to squirrel away for a minute, and nods at the offer of a further lesson tomorrow. Then, once more, the young lad is gone in a furiously skilful squeal of red rubber.

 His time as a student done, Jaime returns to Sunshine Apartments and wallows in the comfort of a cool shower before falling onto his bed for a nap.

 It is an unusual sort of rest though, with his being unable to break from a dream where teen romance novels dance through his head in puddles of water and near darkness, overlaid by the voice of his sister, urging him back and scorning him in equal measure. It gets darker, the sound of batons hitting flesh and a car accelerating to madness overwhelming. It only changes when Jaime hears the car thump over a kerb and Walda, all unseen, calls down just once, a disembodied voice from nothing, speaking of romance.

 There is a splash next to him then, and he turns to find Brienne, naked and perhaps more womanly in form than she actually is, sat next to him in a shallow, dark pool. She turns from him a little, shielding herself, but she is holding a candle out in front of them both in an opaque glass lantern.

 "Do you know what she means?" Jaime asks, not aware if he is referring to his sister or to Walda.

 Brienne looks at him, her face in profile over her shoulder. "No. But I have this light."

 He wakes then, and Jaime isn't sure why he feels uneasy. Yet as dreams do, it is gone soon enough, and when he shakes it wholly off, he thinks that he should make an effort for this evening; for Lennart as much as for Brienne or anyone else. He wouldn't think it a risk to guess that the former jailbird doesn't get to go out much.

 If he isn’t going to bother cooking, his limited repertoire stretching only so far as a handful of dishes suitable for one, Jaime decides to head to Barsena’s and see what he can rustle up there. He walks down towards the beach with no sense of urgency, realizing as he does so that he is actually feeling comfortable in this far-flung place. It is true that it is a nothing sort of town, with hardly any places of note or interest, but the general ease of the pace of life, and the fact that the locals tend to leave visitors to their own devices without being unfriendly, is ideal for Jaime.

 Unless they feel they know them, of course, which is immediately apparent as his head brushes the scalloped plastic edging of the awning of the little restaurant reaching out onto the sands. Barsena is clearing a table and turns to him with a delighted giggle when she notices him. “Is it _true_ , Jaime? Did you make a scene, falling off a bike in the street?”

 “It was my first time on one,” Jaime grins, accepting her question alongside the good humour running through it whilst he holds the door open for the over-burdened woman.

 Barsena spins through the doorway, crockery and cutlery clanking together, though she stills just long enough to wrinkle her nose at Jaime. “You are a strange one!” she laughs, as she heads for the counter, rising onto her tiptoes to lean over and drop the used wares into a large plastic bowl full of soapy water, as carefully as she can. Then she looks at him. “You are here for Lennart, yes? One of his gatherings?”

 Jaime nods, and blanches at the sharp discrepancy between the soft bounce of a wavy, dark ponytail and the high pitched shout as she calls out to her husband in her own language. “He is listening to Council’s Question Time. He does it every week, as if expecting tax cuts for small businesses to fall from the skies,” she explains doubtfully, as Harghaz quickly ducks around the corner, pushing a green first aid box onto the counter. He disappears as swiftly as he had come, giving a short nod as Barsena says one more thing to him.

 Jaime protests as the woman at his side pops open the box and grabs his arm. “It’s just a graze. It’s clean. There’s nothing _wrong_ with it!”

 “So you say,”’ Barsena mutters, tearing open a square packet with her teeth, “But there is dust everywhere in this area.” She looks at his elbow with the purest distaste. “And it’s _leaking_. My other patrons have to eat!" She places the large dressing over Jaime’s graze, who can't help but notice that nobody at any of the small tables is paying his arm a blind bit of notice. “Here, hold this in place.”

 Jaime sees no real point in objecting, so he simply does so and watches as she fumbles in the box. When her hands re-emerge, she is already yanking at a roll of medical tape. Brightly coloured medical tape. “Are those cartoon dragons, Barsena?” Jaime asks, with more than a touch of chagrin as the first edge of the bandage is secured on his skin.

 "Yes," Barsena confirms as she sticks even more of it to him. Once she is satisfied with her work, she pats his arm and stows away the tape. "What? Children come here too," she says unapologetically, smiling warmly at her husband as he emerges from the kitchen, carrying a stoneware cooking vessel. "No tax cuts this week?"

 "No," Harghaz sighs. "Maybe next week."

 "Your hope gives me life, my love."

 The large chef shrugs, almost timidly, before hoisting the pot up onto the counter and handing the thick oven gloves to Jaime. He does so blindly, looking at his wife with the purest affection. "And, my love, I also bring you boar stew."

 "My favourite," Barsena says, practically beaming with happiness. Then she glances at Jaime. "Lennart likes it as well."

 "But if it's for you...?" Jaime asks.

 "There's plenty more where that came from," Barsena reassures him, moving to hold the door open for Jaime in a return of his earlier gesture. "Could you bring those back in the morning?"

 "Sure," Jaime tells her, reassuring her that payment will come too, as this time out, he may have forgotten his wallet.

 He keeps having to stop on his way back to Sunshine Apartments, crouching to place the scorching pot on the pavement and let the oven gloves cool. Arlyn’s wife Garla bustles past him with a condescending smile on one occasion as he gets quite close, and so he decides to travel the last stretch in a lone hit. By the time he makes it through the shady archway, his fingers are burning, and Jaime can just about see the swift movement of white shod feet in his peripheral vision. “Over here, Jaime.” He follows Brienne’s voice at speed until he can put the pot down on a mat, which is slammed into place just before Jaime lets go.

 He pulls off the gloves, shakes out his hands and looks at a small run of camping tables pushed together, all of them covered in paper tablecloths, little pictures of cocktails and what appear to be trifles printed over them. “Classy,” Jaime comments.

 Brienne grunts. “I’m sorry it’s not up to your usual standards,” she says, meaning nothing of the sort. She lays a couple more placemats out, only to pause. “I suppose I should warn you that this meal will be self-service.”

 “But how does one ferry food from pot to mouth without the help of at least three butlers?” Jaime laughs.

 Brienne breaks into a grin. “I’m sure you’ll work it out. I see Barsena got to you,” she adds, gesturing towards Jaime's elbow.

 "Yes, she did. She was worried the mere sight of my extremely manly and obviously near-mortal wound would turn the stomachs of those trying to eat."

 Brienne hums in light and completely unconvincing sympathy while she walks over to a tray she has left sitting on the corner of a flowerbed. Jaime looks around the yard as she starts to dot glasses full of cutlery along the table. In the light of the ebbing afternoon it’s actually quite cheery. Whilst he was gone, Brienne has strung a number of paper garlands around underneath the first floor landing. And she laughs lowly as she sees him notice the tealights shining out of the frosted shades atop the small, wrought-iron wall sconces. “It was a struggle, but I managed to light them alone this time.”

 “I was saying to Walda earlier on that those damned candles are going to haunt me.”

 Brienne shakes her head. “I understood, Jaime. You’d never trusted anyone that way before. And you had to stick close. What if you had to physically stop me from spilling out your secrets?”

 “Precisely,” Jaime says. "You do seem to be the most ungovernable gossip I’ve ever encountered.”

 “I can see why you’d think that,” Brienne tells him, her face a mask of faint amusement as she meets his lie with her own. The door to1F swings open. “So if you don’t mind, Jaime, would you put those bottles on that table for me?” She points at the collection of boxes sitting on the flagstones, next to a lone table by a wall. “It looks like it’s time for gossip.”

 “There’s gossip?” Walda, asks, with far too much in the way of eagerness as she deposits two large, rectangular pies with perfectly golden crusts in pride of place. Twin whorls of steam rise from each, and they smell wonderful.

 “I’m afraid not,” Brienne says, eliciting a sigh from the gifted cook in their midst.

 “I didn’t think so,” Walda mutters, scurrying back into her apartment.

 “That’s a lot of pie,” Jaime observes, while he fishes out a few bottles from the boxes.

 “One vegetarian, one for the carnivores,” Brienne says, as she puts a pile of brightly coloured plastic plates out. “Knowing Walda, there’ll be cake too.”

 “Good. I like cake.” Jaime darts a look at Brienne. “Please tell me you at least eat cake?”

 “Not often.”

 “And maybe not this one at all,” Walda says as she returns. Jaime finishes putting the bottles out as she explains. “There was no icing sugar in the store so I had to buy ready-made tubes.” Jaime doesn’t need to look to hear her disapproval of the choice of products available locally. “Do you know how hard it is to get pre-made icing to the right temperature in this weather?”

 “No, but I’m guessing very,” Brienne says. "I hate to ask, Walda, but what is that?"

 "It's fine, Brienne. This is the first time any kind of decoration has failed me in years!" Walda giggles, not a trace of offence to be heard in her at the hesitantly proffered question. Jaime stows the boxes away inside of each other and pushes them under the drinks table before turning to the women. They are staring down at a cheesecake, topped with a blackcurrant jam, by the looks of it, which has then been decorated with runny blue icing. "Is it an octopus?" he asks.

 Brienne tilts her head. "A spider?"

 Walda sighs balefully. "It was supposed to be two people swimming and tickling each other," she tells them, with a tiny grin which edges towards the smug. "But the icing is a disaster, I'll admit." Her nose twitches as she considers her cake, and then she plucks a knife from a glass and draws it deftly through soft icing and jam. In what appears to be an act of witchcraft, a few fluid movements transform a splodge of blue into a spider in a web. "The Spider is a superhero, is that right?"

 “I thought the Spider was a villain. Didn’t he kill the Scorpion?”

 Brienne's cautious query brings forth a swift burst of wry laughter from the floor above. “Why do people always think badly of Dornish superheroes?”

 “I –!“

 Oberyn waves away Brienne's mortified squeak with his free hand and the most irritatingly dashing of smiles. “The fight on the Titan of Braavos was just a misunderstanding, Brienne," he explains as he walks down to join them, bearing an enormous red mixing bowl. "Once the Scorpion was regenerated by Maester Aemon in the bowels of the Citadel, she hunted the Spider down for her rightful vengeance. But after brawling their way across Westeros, they ended up married and living in the suburbs of White Harbour. They even had a super-secret base under their garden shed.”

 “Did they?" Brienne says. Clearly, the latter part of the story is as much a mystery to her as it is to Jaime. "That's...sweet, I guess?"

 “Yes, it is," the Dornishman says, transferring the bowl from one hand to the other with a flourish and dropping into an elaborate bow. "And here, my Lady of Tarth, are my famed hot glass noodles, for your delectation. Where should I put them?”

 Jaime just about manages to keep the words 'up your fucking arse' in check, though if Oberyn puts his teeth on edge just by dint of his being the smoothest operator Jaime has ever encountered, his charms seem to have no effect at all on Brienne, who simply points to an empty tablemat, a short way along the table. “Over there, Oberyn. Thank you.” She turns then, and waves up at young Elia, who takes the gesture as an ideal opportunity to make a break from her mother, who is securing the open doorway to 2D with a childgate, and scampers down to her father's side.

 Oberyn grabs a nearby seat and drops into it, gathering his daughter onto his lap, though he only gets the opportunity to press a fatherly kiss to dark curls before Elia leaps up again and gapes in awe at what has been, thus far, the most controversial item on offer, suave Dornishmen aside. "Is that a Spider cake?"

 "It is now," Walda says across to her, sparing Oberyn a quick glance, as if seeking his permission to offer some, which is met with a carefree shrug. "Would you like the first slice?" As Elia jumps up and down in what appears to be her standard reaction to exciting matters, Jaime watches a ground floor door open, which is closed with the utmost sense of caution by Zhanaara, who then follows her husband over. He is balancing five large plastic containers on one meaty forearm, which she takes from him one at a time to open and dot around amongst those already present.

 Jaime is just settling into a chair at one end of the tables when a pot of the most incredible-looking food drops down in front of him, all obscure grains, spiced meats and the sweet edge of the scent of fruits wafting his way. The top of it is even dotted with slivers of fresh figs. He leans back and stares at them. "How do either of you find the time?"

 "It is difficult, but we do," Zhanaara laughs, and introduces her husband Darzaq, who cuts a far more impressive figure up close than when he's chasing children around on a beach, and is a firefighter in their home area of Meereen, Jaime is promptly informed. A solid and friendly handshake follows, once Darzaq has transferred a brightly lit baby monitor from one hand to the other, though after the basic pleasantries are over, Jaime doesn't miss a longing look which is sent in the direction of the drinks table.

 "Go," Jaime says. "I'm pretty sure you've both earned it."

 Darzaq doesn't need to be told twice, though before she again follows the exhausted man, Zhanaara smiles wryly at Jaime. "He finds holidays hard. Even at home, I think he likes going to work for a rest!"

 As one woman moves away, another steps in opposite, and Jaime just enjoys looking up at Brienne once more, even if she pays him no attention, her nose twitching as she tries to work out where to put her tray of sausage rolls. He reaches for one, and she goes to pull the tray away, only to change her mind and hold it out to him. "They're supposed to be for the _children_ , Jaime," she says, shaking her head and moving off to drop them down in place after he stuffs one into his mouth wholesale. It turns out to be a small act of hubris, though if his having to brush away the copious flakes of puff pastry that end up showering his shirt after he nearly chokes on it is something Brienne finds amusing, it isn't so bad after all. 

 Over the next few minutes, more of those staying in Sunshine Apartments gather. The Mormonts arrive, having simply left the door to theirs open, their babe presumably sleeping in her cot. They seem a touch embarrassed at only having brought chips and dips when they see the fare available, but Brienne thanks them warmly anyway and manages to find a place for the snacks on a table, which is on the verge of filling as a number of other guests Jaime hasn't met yet come to add their offerings too.

 Gregor immediately makes a bee-line for the Spider cake as well, being served a hefty slice by Walda, though his elder brother skulks away to sit on the edge of the farthest flowerbed to stare morosely down into his phone. Walda, sensing a challenge, ferries another slice over to the teenager, and if he accepts it with little in the way of grace, enthusiasm, or even manners, it is clear that she still counts it as a victory as she returns and sits beside Jaime.

 There is a sudden blast of commotion, as the door of 3B opens, and four young men pile out, dressed to the sevens and obviously on their way elsewhere for the evening. Their loud shouts ebb swiftly at the massed shushes sent up their way. Jaime figures that they must stay here regularly, for instead of getting louder, as he would expect such a group to do, considering they are all bearing large drinks with them, they dance silently down the steps in slow motion. Their flailing arms and generally unsteady gait bring the most delight to Elia, now on her mother's lap, and Gregor, sat in his own chair next to them.

 Averting the looming disaster of Spider cake spilling down onto bright t-shirts is attempted by Ellaria grabbing two paper napkins and slapping them to small chins, though this only proves to be a minor success, for this is taken as a sign for tongues to be poked out at the tiresomeness of grown-ups, and causes more mess than it prevents.

 As Jaime spoons out a little of the dish brought by Zhanaara onto his plate, Brienne has already started to cut through the crisply glazed crust of one of Walda's pies. Walda jumps to her feet and carefully removes the knife from Brienne's hand, telling her firmly to sit and rest. By the time the young men have danced and mimed their way to the ground floor, including a creditable instance of one of them doing the diver's dance, she has cut three slices of the meat pie and one of the vegetarian, depositing them onto two paper plates and holding them out. If the men are edging towards the archway in a slow chain of unheard, yet dramatic roaring and ill-timed kicking, the latter of the four breaks away and makes his way over when he sees them. 

 "Here you go, Azzak," Walda says. "There's some for all of you. Qezza's is on a separate plate."

 "Thank you, Walda!" Azzak grins, trying to lean across the chairs and table, but when he realizes it is too awkward, simply slapping a kiss to his hand and reaching over to pat it to Walda's cheek. "You're the best!" He shrugs as he abandons his glass and takes the pieces of pie, before hurrying to catch up with his friends. As Walda sits, Jaime looks at Brienne, sat opposite him as she now is, though she seems vacant in expression until shouts of _'Pie!'_ , dulled by thick walls, echo in through the archway.

 She smiles at him then. "They always love Walda's pies."

 "A hardy stomach lining _is_ important on a night out."

 "That is so," Brienne says, reaching across to fish out a small knot of ‘famed’ noodles from the red bowl. If she seems timid about even eating them, Oberyn’s curious gaze perhaps sitting a touch too heavily on her, the issue dissipates as Tyrion arrives, the departure of the group from next door possibly having been enough to galvanise him into emerging from 3A.

 He blows his fringe, which is somewhat longer, curlier, and massively untidier than Jaime’s from in front of his nose as he unceremoniously plonks two bottles of his purest green on the table. “Didn’t have any food, so I brought these instead,” he explains, grabbing one the last free chairs and trying to wrestle it into clanging place between Brienne and Oberyn. “Shove over a bit, will you?” he asks.

 As his request is fulfilled, little Elia twists around on her mother’s lap, and having crammed the last of her cake into her mouth, walks her way along the narrow edge of the table on her elbows, wriggling the rest of herself out of Ellaria’s grip and shifting over onto her father. “Why has one of them got a ribbon?” she asks, still chewing away.

 Tyrion gets up onto his chair and lifts the bottle with the bright red ribbon tied about the neck. “This one would be for you younger ones.”

 Elia stares at him suspiciously. “Why can’t we have the other one?”

 “You wouldn’t like it.”

 “Oh, yeah?”

_“Yeah!”_ Tyrion laughs, opening the other bottle instead. “You can smell it, if you want to. But I promise you, you’re not going to like it!” he says, an opinion proven in short order as one small whiff of his proper purest green sees the last chewed morsel of Spider cake dropping to the floor with a wet splat, barely missing Oberyn’s trousers whilst Elia writhes around in theatrical disgust.

_"Ew!”_

 “Quite,” Tyrion sniffs, handing that bottle to Oberyn, bringing forth a far more approving smile as the children’s purest green is uncapped. “I think you’ll prefer this one.” He hands the bottle over to the girl.

_"Bubblegum!"_ she shrieks, close to ear-splittingly, clambering furiously over both mother and father to scoot off to find herself an appropriate glass, dragging Gregor and his plate along with her.

 Oberyn and Ellaria sigh in unison. "We did teach her table manners. She used to actually _use_ them," Ellaria mutters wistfully, banging her head softly against the shoulder of the man she clearly adores.

 Oberyn presses a loving kiss to the side of her head. "She'll start doing so again, I'm sure," he reassures her.

 "Probably," Jaime says, "though maybe not if she's anything like my brother here. He used to have manners too." Tyrion throws out a quick run of fairly crudely suggestive gestures with ease, and Jaime just grins at him, his point made. "What made you think that bringing a drink for the children that looks exactly the same as the alcoholic one was a good move, by the way? How could that _ever_ go wrong?"

 Tyrion just grabs his bottle and cradles it protectively against in front of his chest. "If you think that I'm letting this out of my bloody sight, you've finally gone completely fucking insane, brother."

 "Could it go as far as these glasses?" Oberyn asks, picking up his glass and clinking it against Ellaria's.

 "Of course!" Tyrion says, though as he pours it, Oberyn stares, first at one bottle, then the other.

 "Jaime's right. How did you match them so well?" His acceptance of Jaime's opinion is so open and easy that he feels a knot untie inside of him, though Jaime has no idea why.

 Brienne finishes her noodles, opposite him, with a small, but happy, hum. Then Jaime watches Tyrion consider his afternoon. "I just went to the small supermarkets and picked up all the ghastly fizzy pop I could find. Then I mixed it. I did have to add some food colouring though." He scratches the side of his head and looks around the yard. "You don't think any of them might be allergic, do you?"

 "Allergens!" Brienne leaps to her feet, only to be frozen in place by a single word from Walda.

 "Sit!" Walda leans in then, concern writ large on her face. "Brienne, please just rest. I've spoken to everyone and it's fine."

 Brienne does so with a light frown, but then simply shrugs in resignation and spoons out some of Zhanaara's dish. She picks up her fork and pauses, staring flatly across at Jaime. "What?"

 "You're one of those health food enthusiasts, aren't you?"

 "Do you think you could pour more scorn on that phrase? I don't think they caught it, back in Westeros." She shakes her head and smiles. "Jaime, I eat healthily. But sometimes, I will have a steak. Or maybe even bacon."

 "Risky," Jaime says, "but everything does taste better with bacon."

 "I'm sure you'd even say that about bacon."

 "I would," he agrees blithely, turning as Oberyn lets out a sharp cry.

 "I forgot to say! I saw ‘Walda Bakes!’ when I was at Hardhome for this year’s Monstercon!" He points at the woman opposite him and smiles widely. "Your recipe for walnut cake looked _divine_.”

 Walda nods, almost shyly. “I am proud of that one. The secret is the mix of sugars. It really makes the difference. It's much richer.”

 Tyrion's attention has been captured, and his head rises from his current glass of purest green. “You’re on television, Walda?”

 “They recently gave me a five-minute cookery spot on ‘The North Rises’," she tells him, as if it's nothing of importance. "It’s just a regional morning show on the Stark Network.”

 “You are too modest, Walda," Oberyn insists, then grinning at Tyrion. "She’s a _natural_.”

 “Thank you. I hope they'll want to keep me on." Jaime can't help but notice that Walda seems uncomfortable accepting praise. She nearly seems to squirm in her seat as Oberyn says the Stark Network would be fools to let her go, and she quickly changes the subject. "What’s Monstercon?”

 “It’s where he goes to meet his fans, Walda," Ellaria says. "They love his latest line of graphic novels. The 'New Night's King' is going down a storm.”

_“Graphic novels, not comics,"_ Walda whispers to herself, a clear reference to long-gone conversations that sounds like a mantra. "Do you still go along with him to these things?”

 “Not as often as I used to, what with my own work and _these,"_ Ellaria laughs, ruffling the hair of Elia, who by now is squeezed into Gregor's chair with him. A bright green tongue is stuck out, if only briefly, before Ellaria turns from her eldest child and leans against Oberyn, her smile radiant. "I _do_ miss the cosplay.”

 “Did you do that? I've always thought it sounds like fun. _Oh!”_   Walda squeaks, as she seems to finally cotton on to what is obvious to everyone else; that Oberyn's nuzzling of Ellaria is edging slightly beyond the merely fond. "You don't mean when you're meeting your fans, do you?"

 Ellaria's resultant laughter is distinctly low and throaty. "No, even if we used to do that too. You should give it a go, Walda, if only for yourself. It's a lot of fun. We've been trying to convince Brienne to give it a whirl for years. We think she'd make a great -"

  _"No,"_ Brienne cuts in, tipping her head forwards to look sternly along at Ellaria. "I'm sorry, Ell. It's not going to happen." If Jaime is, frankly, confused, Brienne quickly glances across and enlightens him. "There's an obscure Lyseni sci-fi series, where this warrior woman flies about in a spaceship, saving the universe with ray guns, wearing this...silver chainmail bikini thing." Jaime's brain grinds to a shuddering sort of full stop at that. "I think it's supposed to be armour," Brienne says, her mouth pinched in blatant disapproval, "but honestly, it's barely even big enough to be a bikini."

 Tyrion sniggers into his glass and taps her arm. "I believe you lost him at the phrase 'chainmail bikini', Brienne."

 "No," Jaime lies, his mind working in double-time to dredge up something sensible to say. "I was thinking that it doesn't sound...very practical."

 Ellaria lets loose a sharp cry of censure, her outrage at this ill-judged opinion clear to see. "It's entirely practical! It has a built-in protective force field!"

 "Well, _that_ makes it better," Brienne mutters, rising to her feet, even if then she simply shakes her head and smiles. " _Never happening_. And don't you start, Darzaq!" she says, as the fireman's hefty shoulders begin to shake with barely contained laughter at the other end of the table. She gently beats her fingertips at the side of Darzaq's head as she moves past him and away, to check on some of the other guests, though the change in her complexion is plain to everyone, even in the lower light of the evening.

 "Ah, she blushes," Oberyn sighs. "She is the sweetest woman," he says, to a soft nod of agreement from Ellaria, before he turns, his gaze suddenly blade-sharp. "Isn't she, Jaime?"

 Jaime doesn't deign to respond, simply grateful that Tyrion seems otherwise occupied, having fished out his phone, his fingers darting across the screen. However, his relief is short-lived, as Tyrion pauses and waves his phone at Oberyn. "Oh, I think I've found it! This one, right?" Oberyn agrees, and Tyrion holds it out towards Jaime.

 If the phone is shaking due to Tyrion being overcome by yet more laughter, it is not enough to obscure the image of a scantily clad woman with epic legs bestriding a planet, ray guns in hand. "See?" Ellaria insists, incredibly smugly. "Brienne could carry that like a dream. A really _hot_ dream. Those legs!"

 "I hate all of you," Jaime mumbles as those opposite him snicker, and he picks up his fork to launch the few remains of Zhanaara's food on it directly across the table.

 "So why are you only flicking it at me?" Tyrion grumbles, wiping the grains from his face. He shrugs and licks his fingers clean. "Oh, this is great!" he adds, with more than a touch of approval. He puts his phone down and reaches out. "Pass me the bowl, will you?"

 Jaime does so, a touch grudgingly, and if Tyrion simply digs into what is left, skipping the part where he puts it onto his own plate, he at least spares the time to thank Zhanaara, who is returning from a brief check on her vast collection of children. "It's good to see you have _some_ manners," she says to him, looking at the beleaguered serving bowl, an eyebrow jauntily raised.

 "It's so good. There won't be any left," Tyrion promises her as she rejoins her husband and stares with some consideration at Walda's vegetable pie. Walda, being Walda, notices the interest and doesn't delay in depositing a large slice in front of Zhanaara.

 The cook, or the chef, as Jaime supposes he should more rightly think, hardly has the time to sit down before she leaps back to her feet, when Brienne moves back to the tables with a shy looking couple in tow. "Walda, could you hand me those plates for Sam and Gilly?"

 "What are you two doing, sitting on your own with just a bag of crisps?" Walda seems outraged at this turn of events, and with what appears to be her characteristic bustle, goes to grab the young pair. "Come around this side, next to me. You are celebrating. Come." She tows them around the table, all resistance from the pair proving futile, and swiftly unfolds two spare chairs, virtually elbowing poor Darzaq until he makes enough room for them to be squeezed into place. "Sit and eat!" she orders, manhandling them into the seats. It seems that Gilly might be about to protest, as she has brought nothing to share, but Walda silences her by handing over some cutlery. "Eat your fill. Nobody minds. In fact we will welcome it." She looks up and around the table, explaining with a happy shrug, "They have just wed!"

 Congratulations flow in from those sat at the table and others beyond, and if Jaime's is ignored, it is understandable, given their only previous encounter on the beach, yesterday. Gilly is immediately inundated with food, but Sam remains silent, looking down at his folded hands. Jaime leans across Walda's empty chair. "I hear the boar stew is good. Would you like some?"

 "Thank you," Sam says, his voice strangled. His head rises when Jaime realizes, a moment too late, that the stoneware lid is still quite hot, just enough for it to be too much to handle, though less than a second after his hiss of discomfiture, the lid in question is snatched away by Brienne, with a hastily grabbed tea-towel. Jaime pretends not to notice astonishing eyes being rolled at his general domestic hopelessness as she sits. He ladles out some stew for Sam, then deciding to try some himself. It turns out to be delicious, and Sam appears to like it as well.

 Lennart is the last to emerge into the yard at about this time, yet if he seems pleased at the turnout, there can be no doubt that he is very tired. Naturally Brienne springs up to go to him, but the old man shakes his head, so instead she grabs a plate and places it at the very end of the table, between her seat and Jaime’s. If Lennart says he doesn’t feel very hungry, his tune changes marginally when he’s told that Jaime brought along some of Harghaz’ boar stew. But even as Brienne ladles out some of the aromatic dish, Jaime is sure he can see Lennart’s appetite wane further. Brienne leans in close. “You should try to eat, if only a little.”

 Lennart picks up a spoon and drags a lump of meat about his plate aimlessly, with next to no enthusiasm. Jaime notices that his fine grip is weak, with a couple of his fingers struggling to meet.

 “Please, Lennart?”

 Lennart lifts the spoon towards his mouth with the kind of grimace that might, more often, be found on the pickier kind of child at mealtimes. “Aye, aye, Captain Tarth.”

 “Captain Tarth?” Tyrion laughs.

 Lennart seems to appreciate this as an opportunity to avoid actually eating, and doggedly refuses to look directly at Brienne as meat meets plate again, with a decidedly final clink. “Yes, Tyrion. Captain Tarth,” he says. “Don’t you know she has a boat?”

 “How does a schoolteacher get to own a boat?” Jaime asks.

 Brienne picks up her phone, which has been virtually forgotten on the corner of the table since before Jaime arrived. “It’s not exactly an ocean-going yacht,” she says, flicking through some images and passing it over to him. In the picture before him, Brienne, dressed plainly in jeans and what must surely be the largest black jumper ever knitted, is standing next to what might once have been termed a narrowboat, but which appears to now be little more than a vaguely hull shaped heap of rust.

 “You _bought_ this? With actual coin?”

 “I had enough of my inheritance left to take a small risk, and I needed a hobby.”

 “Did you want your hobby to float?”

 “It _does!”_ Brienne plucks her phone away and thumbs through a few more pictures and hands it back. “It’s taken me a couple of years, but it’s watertight and decked out now.”

 This new photo sees Brienne dressed no differently, though her hair is piled untidily on her head in a thin, lopsided sort of bun. It’s obvious, however, that a lot of time has passed, because her boat is in a far better state, and her jumper worse. There’s no sign of rust anywhere and the paintwork is pristine. Jaime looks at the freshly emblazoned name on the side, white letters outlined in red on a field of ultramarine blue. “I’m guessing you bought it because of its name?”

 “Lightbringer,” Brienne nods, with a soft smile.

 “You do like the old stories,” Jaime smiles back.

 “I do,” she says, “but I didn’t know until after I’d bought her that she was only called that because she used to carry candles from factories out near the Great Apiary to King’s Landing.”

 If she sounds offended, even verging on the practically grumpy at the origin of her boat's name being so prosaic, Jaime has another question in mind. “Why didn’t they send them by sea?”

 “It’s the Stormlands, Jaime. I’m told the inland waterways were a bit more reliable, in the worst seasons.”

 "You said you've decked it out. You're _not_ going to do the plumbing, are you?"

  _"No,"_ she says wryly. "You see the longer boat at the next mooring? There's a man who lives there. Calls himself the Blackfish. I don't remember him ever telling me his real name, but I know he retired to the Stormlands about five years ago. Says he prefers the air. Anyway, he's going to help me.”

 Tyrion leans in and stares at Brienne's phone. "Ugh. I hate boating holidays."

 “Merchant vessels?” Jaime asks him.

 “No, no that. Didn't I ever tell you, brother?” Tyrion says. “Oh. Well, when you were ‘unavoidably detained’, father decided that what the rest of us needed was to spend time together. Something to do with 'bringing us closer as a family unit', I think. I don't really remember. I was stoned out of my mind when he shoved me into the damned limo. He hired this bloody boat, out in the Riverlands, and it was a nightmare. I spent the first three days heaving my guts up over the side as I detoxed, and over the following few weeks, he had to fish me out of the drink at least a half a dozen times with a grappling hook as our dear sister showed her appreciation for the opportunity she'd been given to bond with me.”

 If his brother’s recollections bring humour from all around, Jaime is horrified. That their sister would do that, knowing Tyrion’s lack of ability in water, goes beyond anything he’s ever known her to, moving from the vicious into the outright dangerous. “Why didn't you tell me?”

 His question is met with the kind of look that Tyrion normally reserves for the meanly stupid. “It must have slipped my mind,” he answers, drolly. “Anyway, between Cers being distinctly temperamental and father acting like he owned the high seas as well, I just...ugh. Never again.” He sips at his purest green. “Do you know he has a captain's hat? A real one, with the gold embroidery and everything. He had it made specially for our trip. He probably still has it locked safely in a vault, as a memento of his glorious time aboard ship. I must admit, Jaime, the whole thing was dreadful, but at least I came out of it able to swim a bit more than I could before,” he continues, “if not by much. I reckon I could take on a housebrick and win, these days. But truly, boats are off my agenda forever.” After a dramatic shudder, he simply snatches Brienne’s phone from her. “Enough of that. So this is the latest picture? How did it begin? Let's see.” He begins flicking through the photos, but stops after only one or two. _“Whoa!”_

 “No!” Brienne hisses, trying to retrieve it, though as Jaime can attest, Tyrion’s grip is strong, and he clasps the phone to his chest possessively.

 He at least has the grace to apologize before he throws it across to Jaime. “Sorry, Brienne, I _have_ to. This is too good not to share.”

 Jaime looks down at the image which had so grabbed his brother’s attention, and it may indeed be the least flattering one in existence. If the cut of the basic dress Brienne is wearing at what looks like an awards ceremony isn’t bad, the colour and the extra flourishes adorning it seem to be the work of a tailor teetering on the edge. Much to Tyrion’s disappointment, Jaime just hands it straight back to Brienne, though he doesn’t even approach flattery with her, knowing that she would be more offended by a lie, than the truth. “Pink isn’t your colour, but I don’t think that shade of it is anyone’s. Anyway, the real problem might be the gigantic bow.”

 “It’s always been difficult to find dresses in my size,” Brienne mutters in resignation. “And I was assured it was the height of fashion. Honestly, I only went to find one a few hours before the ceremony. I’d been avoiding it.” Jaime desperately wants to reassure her that he doesn’t give a damn about a bloody dress, for whatever that would be worth, but he can hardly do anything as foolish as holding her hand in front of everybody, particularly Lennart, who is right there, so instead he taps his foot against hers. She seems to get the point, a miniscule twitch of her lips enough to let him know that she is okay.

 Meanwhile, Ellaria looks at them curiously. “Did you say a large bow? Was this a couple of years or so ago?” When Brienne confirms it, she waves away any lingering doubts. “That was one of the worst times for clothing I can ever remember, Brienne. Think nothing of it. I had a bonfire when that season passed. A very large bonfire.” She goes on to regale them with tales of her favourite clothing disasters, not least the cape dress, secured by a lone clasp, that failed during an important meeting at work.

 Whilst the piles of food slowly deplete, the number of people remaining starts to thin, and if Lennart sneaks away in a moment when Brienne’s attention is elsewhere, she follows him quickly into 1G, his plate in hand. It is clear to Jaime that when she comes back just a few minutes later that she is concerned for her father’s best friend, though she keeps it under wraps, throwing her will behind being yet more considerate of the needs of the guests. She offers to carry Elia up to 2D when she goes from darting around at a thousand miles an hour to a dead stop, almost in mid-step, but Oberyn does it, for as he says, he rarely gets the opportunity. The Mormonts drift away fairly early on, as do a number of others, though more remain in the cooling night air.

 The mood becomes lazier, though this doesn’t mean that the conversation is dulled by fuller stomachs. At one point, Jaime watches in sheer amazement as Walda and Oberyn lean in across the camping tables, passionately debating the qualities of egg and rice noodles, neither one seemingly willing to give ground on their preferred choice, fingers jabbing happily over nearly empty serving bowls. At the same time, Ellaria, who has already declared cookery a subject which bores her to tears, engages Brienne in a heated conversation about a sports star Jaime isn’t sure he could pick out in a line-up, over by the drinks table. Jaime makes his way over to grab a beer, and doesn't feel qualified to jump in on a subject which is clearly far closer to their hearts.

 “There’s no way she isn’t carrying an injury. The Rangers were foolish to pay so much for her.”

 If Brienne is standing tall, a wall of immutable opinion, Ellaria is more openly passionate about it, the wine in her glass close to sloshing over the brim when she gestures widely. “It was completely justified! She’s won the Balon Qohor for the last three years!”

 “Yet didn’t even make the shortlist for _this_ season’s award. We’re back to just men.” They both groan lowly. “I tell you, Ell, she’s crocked, much as I hate to say it.”

 “So why would they break the record to sign her? And how would she get past the medical? Tell me that!”

 Brienne shrugs indifferently. “They’ll make more than they paid for her in days in shirt sales alone. You know that. But she’s a bad long-term investment, and the fans will turn on the board when her condition becomes clearer.” She smiles down at her fellow sports aficionado. “And there’ve been many big money moves that have seen stars wangle their way through deals in the transfer window, only to end up warming the bench forever after. Remember _Daynino?”_

 Ellaria snorts in blatant derision, though Jaime is struggling to remember him. He's never found watching team sports that interesting. “Overrated doesn’t cover it!” she laughs.

 “Oh, I don’t know,” Brienne sniffs. “He single-headedly made that hair cream popular again, so...maybe he saved a few jobs?"

 "I don't care! It's all the more reason to loathe the man.” Ellaria steps in closer, her voice suddenly breathily suggestive. “Brienne, for about three years, I had to throw away almost _every_ pillowcase I dared to own. That stuff smells like horses, and it _doesn't_ wash out."

 Brienne glances at Jaime, who waves his newly-uncapped beverage uncertainly, in the universal signal for ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I want to interfere in this’, and moves off at pace. He just about catches a scowl before Brienne bypasses the previous words in their entirety, getting back to the matter at hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Yara’s still my favourite player ever. But you can’t deny she’s been favouring her left knee. By the mid-season break, your column will be full of talk of surgery.”

 They seem to agree to disagree as Jaime sits back at the table. “Ellaria's a sports reporter?” he asks Oberyn.

 “She is,” the Dornishman says, his accompanying smile no less headily suggestive than Ellaria’s talk of pillows, though his turns out to be borne of nostalgia. “We even met in a locker room. She arrived to do an interview. I was wearing nothing but a small towel." He flings a hand out airily. "Things developed naturally from there.”

 “You were an athlete?”

 “No.” Oberyn stretches in his seat, cat-like. “I wasn't there for the sport, so much as the sports _men_.”

 “I see,” Jaime says. A couple of seats down, a piece of pie drops from a fork and Sam simply gapes across at his fellow guest. Jaime isn't that surprised himself, even if he is genuinely impressed that two people who clearly think the absolute world of each other are able to not just function, but thrive in such a unique way

  _Would that I could do the same myself. Or at all. That would be a start._

His musings are interrupted by the emergence into the yard of Missandei, who does nothing more than send a small wave Brienne’s way before coming over to stand by her empty chair. She grips the backrest. "I need to ask you something, Jaime Lannister," she says quietly. "Will you walk with me?"

 Jaime ignores the curious interest displayed by those at this end of the table falling silent and stands. "As you will, Missandei," he says, and follows her, out through the stone archway. He doesn't look back. When they emerge onto the street outside, Jaime sees a man, apparently waiting for them. Though he is not large, he is very well formed, strong, and Jaime can feel a tingle on the back of his neck that warns him that this man could be very dangerous indeed. However, this is belied by the man's countenance, which is placid, almost too placid, and completely unthreatening. Jaime takes one deep breath and decides to take the chance that he'll shortly be feeling a knife slip in between his ribs, falling into step beside the woman. The man follows, his footsteps virtually inaudible.

 They walk slowly, and are close to the end of the lane when Missandei breaks the tense quiet.  "Every year, my friend goes to Westeros, and she searches for surviving relatives," she says, as if stating a fact, with no hint of blame. She stops in place and looks up at Jaime. "Should I tell her she is wasting her time?"

 Jaime merely shrugs. "You know I can't say."

 "Which can only mean she is not," Missandei counters, stepping closer. There is, again, the distinct impression of a mind working at lightning speed behind eyes that see too much and Jaime finds himself unmoving in their regard. A small, pretty face moves gravely and slowly from side to side, as if trying to view what is inside his head from differing angles. "There would be no point to your silence if Danaerys was the only one still living. It would only serve to blacken your name needlessly. So you are protecting someone," she states. She moves off again, but spins back before Jaime takes another step, her words becoming more animated. "Yet I do not understand. Why would a mother not strive to be with her children, if they are still living? Especially now, when there is one left, alone in the world?"

 If he is unsurprised by Missandei having identified the hidden relative, there being so few candidates, Jaime nonetheless struggles for a moment with the memory of the last time he saw a certain septa, a long time ago. The physical punishment of a tortuous birth in a place with barely anything approaching modern medicine had taken years to heal; the mental scars of sending her surviving children far away for their safety, not to mention the horrors she had endured before, remained easily read in a shockingly gaunt frame and a prematurely aged face. "I have already told you the one thing I can, Missandei. Think on it. It seems to be your gift." As he so often does, he shoves the past firmly back into its box. "That and your hair, which is _delightful_ , by the way."

 If Missandei doesn't seem to hear that last comment, the man who had followed their lead does, stepping to her side. "I think you are right," he says to her, though he is plainly aware that it will not be noted. "I think he is not what he is believed to be." That second statement is said more for Jaime's benefit than anything else.

 "I am, having served time for it, and I'm no shining example of anything, I promise you," Jaime tells him.

 This version of the truth is met by the ghost of smile. "I am Grey," the man says. "Missandei is my beloved. My wife."

 "Then you are very lucky."

 "I am," Grey nods. He reaches his right hand out towards Jaime's. "May I?"

 Jaime glances at Missandei, who is off in a world of her own, or at least half a world away. "Yes," he says. "We might as well. It looks like we could be a while." Grey's resulting grip is precisely as Jaime had expected, one of superbly contained and controlled strength. But they do not shake hands. Instead, Grey shifts his hold to turn Jaime's hand in his, bringing the scarring of his arm into sharp relief under the street lighting. Jaime watches as it becomes the object of a slow, inquisitive kind of scrutiny; gentle, yet unlike with Brienne, this feels more like an interest in the underlying mechanics of his body alone. His hand is flexed and twisted, and somehow Grey seems to know the line where discomfort is to be found, stopping just shy of causing any. He has a remarkable level of skill, Jaime thinks, matched only by small proportion of those involved in his healing, and he is fascinated when Grey presses his left thumb into one of the deeper scars, manoeuvring his hand, clearly trying to work out how he works.

 It brings a sudden moment of levity, as Jaime realizes just how rarely this has happened. "Do you know how many people did this before I came here?" Dark eyes dart up in question, only to drop away to damaged flesh once more. "Only medics," Jaime adds. "Maybe I should start charging."

 Grey lets Jaime's arm go, and there is the briefest flash of a brilliant smile as he steps backwards. _"Now_ you sound like a Lannister, as I understand them," he notes, only to look around in confusion. "Missandei?"

 She is gone, and Jaime tails a swiftly moving Grey around the corner, where he catches sight of Missandei. She is now pacing back and forth in front of the gym that sits to one side of Sunshine Apartments, her fingertips tapping against her thumbs in a discordant beat as she continues to think, sunk into the deepest concentration. Grey's rapid pace slows as he draws near, as if not wanting to distract her. "This is our home," he says, simply.

 "This place is yours?"

 "It is."

 "Lennart didn't mention that."

 "Why would he?" Jaime says nothing, understanding that it, in fact, makes perfect sense. Lennart couldn't deny the existence of this place, but nor would he overtly encourage Jaime to spend much time in the home of people who are clearly dear to him, and have good reason not to want Jaime there. Better that he learned to ride a bike, it turns out. But if Grey might have agreed before, it is he who now points at Jaime's right arm. "I have an interest in helping those recovering from illness and injury," Grey says. "You have done well with yours. I am free in the mid-morning. You are welcome to visit then."

 "Fine," Jaime replies. He has no idea if he or Grey will benefit the most from Jaime doing so, but it doesn’t matter.

 “I will see you then, Jaime Lannister.” Then Grey slips away into the entrance of the gym, and if Jaime finds the continuing use of his full name by this pair comically unwieldy, he has no opportunity to comment as Missandei comes to an abrupt halt right in front of him.

 “I do not like where these thoughts are leading me,” she says. For once, an edge of vulnerability can be heard in her, which is hardly a resounding shock to Jaime. He had guessed it wouldn’t take her long to hit the right track.

 “I didn't say they would take you anywhere you'd care to be.”

 She lets out the smallest of sighs, one heavy with dark sorrow. “Did he kill his son?”

 There is no need for pretence, to ask who she means, even if Jaime is tempted to run with it. Legally, this is a conversation he can have, but it doesn’t mean he wants to. “I'm no coroner, but I would have to disagree with the one who decided it was a tragic accident.” If that is all he feels like saying, Missandei clearly expects more, the sorrow draining from her and deep curiosity taking its place. Jaime isn’t sure why, because if his conviction has been largely forgotten, a side-note at the ending of a truly dark family history, the details of the spectacular, horrifying death of Aerys’ promising and widely-loved eldest son have never left the public consciousness. In fact, Jaime has always thought that his actions, if hugely damaging to his reputation, were somewhat allayed by the widely-held opinion that Aerys _had_ seen his own son murdered. If Jaime has no time for the witterings of those who sit behind keyboards spinning conspiracies out of the air, he can at least be privately grateful for their accidental foray into the truth on this. Though if Missandei wants solid confirmation of it, Jaime has to stop just short of it, merely offering an opinion that is rather more informed than anybody else’s. “Rhaegar's car veering out of control and bursting into flames whilst it happened to be on the highest bridge in the world, only then to career precisely off it, into a narrow, fast-flowing river, always seemed a little too...coincidental to me.”

 “To many, I think,” Missandei calmly agrees. “Is that why you did it?”

 “No,” Jaime says, unwilling to lie about any of it, even now, especially now, and fully aware that his killing Aerys had been prompted by the older man’s later descent from paranoia into outright madness, and the acts that followed it. “Think what you will of me, but I have no god, or gods, and I keep my care for the living, where I can. The dead are gone.”

 Missandei seems to accept that blunt statement. “I see.” She looks down at the pavement between them, but only for the briefest spell, her head bobbing back up and her voice laced with the determination to hear what she needs. She already knew everything else. This is the question she simply had to ask. "I must ask one more question. If Danaerys finds her mother, will she be welcome? Will such a meeting cause distress, for either of them?"

 'Of course it fucking would', is what Jaime immediately wants to say, but even that might not be so. It has been a _very_ long time, and he can't imagine that the broken septa he left behind in an unruly septry kitchen garden, under a leaden sky, just weeks after he was freed from Harrenhal, still exists. Rhaella, or Collena, as he should truly be thinking her by now, has built, in an absolutely secluded manner of speaking, a successful life for herself. She may well have changed, more so than he. He might not even notice her in the street, if she were to walk right by, if he didn't look at her eyes. And there seems no point in denying her continued existence to Missandei, though it feels far more dangerous to admit it to her than it had with Brienne. He doesn't know why, but his breath shudders in close to painfully before he says, "Legally, I still can't tell you, but I would, if I knew. I _don't_." Her spits out that last word, defiant in the truth to the last.

 He watches Missandei as she stands firm, unflinching before the fury in that last word, and for a while they say nothing. But if he has had to give trust where he isn't sure it was safe, only shortly after giving it at all, he won't deny that the diminutive woman before him is thinking differently too. It's hard to see in her, her ability to hide her thoughts proving even beyond Tyrion's, when he feels like it, but it is clear to Jaime that this confirmation matters. It can only be read in the change in the slope of her shoulders, despite her breathing somehow remaining coolly regulated. Her gaze swings out absently into the street as a moped zips by, the most of a family haphazardly piled aboard, and then back to him. And Jaime understands. "You’re going to ask me if I can find out."

 Her head drops in silent assent, and still she says nothing. Jaime thinks of the lone letter he had ever dared to send to Rhaella, or Septa Collena, after he'd heard of the death of Viserys. Not directly, of course, because that would have been far too risky. But he had indulged in a sort of postal shell-game; three envelopes, each in their turn containing another slightly smaller one, all sent to random, residential addresses, and relying on the idea of people having good will; the probable failure of it meaningless, in the larger scale of things. The outer ones had merely asked the envelope inside to be forwarded to the address on the next, with thanks for their kindness in the act. His handwriting, at that stage, remained a total mockery of it, not far beyond childlike, which probably helped, and the actual message had been one of condolence, with no names mentioned, and no title on the final 'shell', no indication of what the final address actually was. To this day, Jaime doesn't know if Collena ever got that letter, but twenty-seven days later, his bottle of cider had turned up like clockwork, on his nameday. As ever, there was no note attached. "I don't know if I can."

 He truly doesn't, and Missandei seems to accept that immediately, a short nod preceding a quick departure towards the slender porch, where Grey appears to be waiting, hidden in the shadows. Yet she stops before she gets there, and swings back around on the ball of one foot, the big toe of the other hitting the pavement with a ludicrous, thinly leathered delicacy in front of her when she is done. "You would do the same again. Wouldn't you?"

 "If I had to a thousand times. Yes." His reply is instant, and unashamed. He will never believe he has a reason to be.

 "No matter the cost to the others. To _yourself_."

 If Missandei needs this extra affirmation, Jaime does not. "Yes," he says, staring bluntly into golden eyes as he adds, "I'll _never_ be sorry."

 For the first time, this young woman becomes utterly readable. She is afraid, doubting her own loyalty and judgment, her fingers trembling as she steps closer again and holds her hand out in offering. "Then...it is good to meet you, Jaime Lannister."

 Jaime doesn't delay, taking her small hand in his, this moment far too heavy to play with. "You too, Missandei." They shake hands, and if the earlier part of the conversation involved him being in the dark, he would not have her so, if he could help it. Everything she has ever said to him has been based on her care for another. Yet he doesn't want to be the only one who is tested. "You're going to tell her I was here, of course," he adds, lightly.

 "Of course," Missandei says, gently pulling her fingers free and stepping back. "But you will be long gone when she returns to Meereen. And she rarely comes here." She shrugs as she acknowledges a simple fact. "Dany prefers the city."

 "Good to know, given I'm on her shit-list." If Jaime's words are coarse, they also fall under the purview of truth, and Missandei actually giggles, though it is swallowed into nothing, swiftly enough.

 "Can you blame her?" she asks, quite deliberately.

 "No," Jaime says, and he means it. "Goodnight, Missandei. Missy?" Bright eyes narrow, and Jaime smiles. "I'll stick with Missandei, then."

 "Goodnight, Jaime Lannister," Missandei says, with a warmth he hadn't heard before, though any confirmation of it is lost as she joins her husband at best speed, the kick of a lock turning and small feet tapping past silent ones meaningless until Jaime hears a door close, not with a slam, but with deliberate care.

 That is enough. Jaime takes a deep breath, relief flowing through him, and heads back to Sunshine Apartments, certain that Missandei and Grey have at least tried to see his point of view. He feels almost featherlight as he walks around the corner, with a burden lifted, but it doesn't last. No sooner does he walk in through the arch than Brienne is standing in front of him, large and solid, her features stricken with concern. "Are you alright?"

 "Yes, Brienne. They're good people." She doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, I’m fine. I survived, completely unscathed.” He pats her shoulder jauntily and sweeps past her, unwilling to discuss anything further here and now.

 He drops back into his seat, meeting Tyrion's curious gaze with a blank one of his own. His brother is undeterred by this poor ruse. "You okay, Jaime?"

 Jaime groans and sips from his beer bottle. "I walked around the corner, Tyrion. Then I walked back. Anybody would think I was swept up in the claws of a dragon."

 Tyrion glances behind himself, at Brienne, who hasn't moved from her spot near the archway. "Brienne looked worried. She still does."

 "There’s no need," Jaime says, dismissing the issue. He looks around, only now noticing that the gathering seems to have ended in his absence. Sam and Gilly can be seen, heading into their apartment on the second floor. Sam goes so far as to venture a small, shy wave Jaime's way as they disappear, which he sends back freely. Almost everybody else is already gone, though Oberyn and Ellaria remain, swaying gracefully together in a slow dance to the very quiet music spilling from a radio. Even Walda is absent, if perhaps the sound of movement in one of the three tiny rooms at the end of the yard signifies that instead of retiring for the night, she is continuing to take her self-adopted role as unofficial hostess very seriously. "What did I miss, Tyrion, apart from my departure leading to a mass migration?"

 "How the ladies wept!" Tyrion laughs. "Nothing much, really, though you should be proud of me, brother," he says, jabbing at his own chest for a spell, "as I saved us all from a fate worse than death."

 "What would that be?"

 "Oberyn threatened to break out his _guitar_."

 "He plays the guitar?" He looks over at Oberyn who, without missing a step, sends him the smug grin of the wildly overly-accomplished. "Of course he plays the guitar."

 Brienne has made her way back over and as she sits, she quietly informs them, "He plays a number of instruments quite well, I’m afraid."

 "Naturally," Jaime says dully, wondering if, in fact, there is anything the man from Dorne can't turn his hand to, if he wishes.

 "He does," Brienne adds, merely stating a fact, with neither praise nor censure to be found in it.

 "I saved us from it, anyway," Tyrion says. He is finally starting to sound a touch bleary, which is a credit to his capacity to function in extremis, given how empty his bottle is. "You know, I have to say, Jaime, that mood-killing exits aside, this evening is one of the best I’ve had in years. Beats the arse off any of the family shin-digs I was sober enough to remember."

 "With no real shin digs."

 "Indeed," Tyrion agrees, slapping haphazardly at his neck. "In fact, I even believe our backs are blade free."

 If Jaime just nods at a point well made, Brienne gapes at them both. "Blade free? _What?"_

"Not literal blades, Brienne," Tyrion explains, though it takes him three attempts to pronounce the word 'literal'. "Just the verbal kind. And it’s been a teensy- _tiny_ bit better since our aunt took over a big chunk of the family business. Now only our ears are endangered." He beckons her in, and Brienne falls for it immediately. "She enjoys tugging on them. Like _this!"_ Jaime winces as her earlobe is yanked fiercely, and he genuinely can't tell if Brienne is outraged or amused by the act. For his part, Tyrion seems to realize straight away that this might qualify as a foolish move, even if he forgets to let go as he picks up his bottle with his other hand, sloshing around the last of his purest green and staring at it fiercely, as if trying to see it at all. "Just how much of this have I had to drink?"

 Brienne gently peels away Tyrion's fingers. "Most of it," she tells him. It's now plain to see that she is trying not to smile, her jaw clenched in her effort to remain serious.

 "That would explain it!" Tyrion mutters up to her, his face the very picture of someone who has had the scales fall from his eyes, when it's clear to everyone else they are piling on fast. "Everything's getting a bit -?" His words fail him momentarily, and he wiggles his recently freed fingers from side-to-side to indicate his current state.

 Brienne is still trying not to smile. "Like this?" she says, one hand flashing up to dance wildly, directly in front of Tyrion's eyes. Fair vengeance for the ear thing, as Jaime sees it.

 A small hand frantically bats away a much larger one. "Yes, like that! Please _stop!"_   Tyrion's eyes roll in his head in confusion, his innate gift for noticing and following everything temporarily slowed and baffled by his own, new brand of purest green. If Jaime finds his brother having done this to himself funny, Brienne simply drops her fingers away without delay, and Tyrion lets it pass after a few seconds in any case, with a meagre sigh. " 'S'a pity, y'know," he says, before he grabs a hold of his slur and corrals it back into place. "You see, the thing to make this evening the toppest uppest - "

 "The 'toppest uppest', Tyrion?" Jaime asks firmly, as aware as Tyrion might just about be that when he starts making up ludicrous phrases, they have around five minutes left to get him to bed before he becomes a deadweight. Jaime has no wish to carry his brother up flights of stairs tonight, because he is stronger and far heavier than he appears to be, yet despite it having been years since Jaime’s had to, he always will if needed.

  _"Yes_ , Jaime." One small wink from Tyrion is enough to set Jaime's mind at ease. He's not _that_ far gone. "The _toppest uppest_ thing would be to have a lady to dance with to round out the evening, but around here they're all too sickarner...sickeningly...devoted to their other halves. I asked Walda, but she said no." Tyrion shrugs. "Apparently purest green is a bit stiff, smell-wise." He rests his head against Brienne’s arm, looking up at her with the kind of winsomeness normally attributed to small puppies. Jaime thinks he needs to work on it a little, but Tyrion seems to believe it’s effective. “I would ask you, Brienne, but I fear I might end up drooling on your waistband,” he tells her.

 “I understand, Tyrion.” Brienne has finally given into humour, and it drapes her voice in warmth. “Perhaps another time.”

 “Maybe, but listen to me. This is important.” Tyrion cups a hand around his mouth and indulges in the most ridiculously hammy stage whisper Jaime has ever had the misfortune to hear. “You should dance with my brother. He _likes_ you.”

 “He does. You should!” Ellaria throws in her stag’s worth, as Oberyn manages to lead her past with the kind of suspiciously good timing that Jaime is beginning to believe might also fall into his disgracefully wide-ranging skillset.

 Yet despite the quite compelling urge to deny any of it, Jaime finds himself doing quite the opposite as Brienne reacts even more strongly than he wants to. “No!” she protests bluntly, frowning down at Tyrion as if she’d been asked to wrestle an angry direwolf. Jaime can see that it is more out of shyness than anything else, but he can’t deny it cuts a little, so he knocks his knee against hers, beneath the table. It catches her attention well enough, and she promptly glares across at him.

 “Are you sure, Brienne? I'd be willing to give it a go,” Jaime lies, knowing full well what reply to expect.

 “No,” she reaffirms, adding a touch more emphasis with a reciprocating thump against Jaime’s knee.

 The table rattles in place, and Tyrion screws up his face. “Are you two playing footsie?”

 “It's more like kneesies, if that's a thing?” Jaime offers blandly.

 “Giant people mating rituals, bleurgh!” That exclamation sees Brienne gently shoving Jaime’s brother away, her eyes narrowing at his tipsy leap of 'logic'. Tyrion doesn’t seem to mind, shrugging without a care and dropping from his chair. “Me, out!” he proclaims, only to wobble slightly as he turns to leave. He looks back at Brienne sheepishly. “It's been a while since I had this much to drink. Ugh,” he groans. “I'm already getting the spins.” He gestures vaguely up in the direction of 3A. “I think I'm going to head to my pit and pretend I'm one of those fairground...whirlygig things that I'm never allowed on.”

 The maudlin tone of the end of this announcement is unmistakable, but before Jaime can do a single thing to head it off, Brienne just says to him, “Tyrion, if it helps, there are some I don't fit on, either. I can't lock the safety restraints over my shoulders.” She sends him a small wave. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

 Jaime’s brother stands there for a few seconds, simply blinking as her words sink in. Then, like a torch being switched on, he smiles. “Thank you for saying that, Brienne. Goodnight.” He makes his way across to the stairs, pointing at Oberyn and Ellaria, who are wrapped around each other at the other end of the yard. “Goodnight, you awesome guys!” he quietly calls, not even seeming to hear their warm reply as he begins the long trudge up to the top floor.

 Jaime and Brienne watch him all the way in silence, and he isn’t sure who would make it to his brother first, should any assistance be required. The question remains unanswered, for apart from a couple of unsteady pauses, Tyrion makes it into their apartment with no problems. It is only when the door closes that Jaime lets loose a low chuckle and asks, “Brienne Tarth, did you just tell a _lie?”_

 “A small one,” Brienne says, offering further explanation that Jaime doesn’t feel is strictly necessary. “Working here, I have often found that harmless ones are just that. I didn't want him going to bed unhappy, Jaime, and he will likely have forgotten in the morning.”

 “You were right to do it, Brienne,” Jaime tells her, “but for the record, he won't forget, and he'll work out it was a lie if he hasn’t already –“

 “Damn!” she mutters, dropping her head into her hands.

 “But he'll thank you for it, Brienne,” Jaime insists. “So do I. He'll sleep better for having heard it. I mean it,” he says, stretching out to tap at her hands. “So you can stop hiding in there.”

 “You two are so sweet,” Ellaria says, having pulled Oberyn over by the hand to switch off the radio. “I think it’s time for us to head off too. Thank you, Brienne,” she sing-songs, which at least serves to bring Brienne out from behind her fingers.

 “You’re welcome. Goodnight.” Again, they watch an ascent until, this time, they are left alone in the yard, but as if to offset all of the insistence of their friendship being more, Brienne just stands. “I should clear up. No, don't,” she says, as Jaime starts to gather some of the crockery within his reach.

 He pauses, looking up at her quizzically. “I should stay for a little while, don't you think? I’m sure you have questions about Missandei.”

 Brienne hums shortly, neither in affirmation or denial, and seems to ignore his point, instead producing a food waste bag from what appears to be thin air and rubbing it between her palms until it opens. Jaime stands himself, grabbing a nearby plate which is heaped with pie crusts and forking them into the bag. Brienne doesn’t seem to object and so, in unspoken agreement, they work their way all the way along the table, getting rid of the scraps. When they get to the other end, the bag is bulging and Jaime is itching to talk, though Brienne still hasn’t said a single thing.

 Jaime decides to talk anyway, as he is becoming unsure about the wisdom of doing so, yet for once in his life, he really wants to. There is something about Brienne that engenders trust, and more specifically his, that he can’t deny. He isn’t used to trusting anyone, and even if it is still very new, he truly enjoys having this one chance to do so. “I can’t interfere. I won’t.”

 For a while, Brienne remains damnably closed-mouthed, putting the food bag down and starting to gather plates onto a nearby tray. But then she glances at his arm and pauses in her movement. “I’m not saying you should, Jaime. I think you’ve done enough.”

 If her words are effectively neutral, their tone is not, a delicate sort of care underlying them that unclenches something in Jaime’s chest, a feeling he hadn’t even known he carried with him. The relief of it makes him smile, almost giddily. “So…not evil?”

 “I’m fresh out of balloons,” Brienne says softly, moving away to get more of the crockery. It joins the rest on the tray before she speaks again. “I’m not sure I agree with your choices, Jaime. But I can't say I wouldn't have at least wanted to do the same.”

 “Has Missandei been asking about me?”

 “Yes. She has.”  Brienne looks at him curiously. “But I think you knew that already.”

 “I did,” Jaime says, moving back to her side again. “So? Don't keep me on tenterhooks, lambikins.”

 It would appear that that particular nickname is starting to wear thin, a recently lifted butter knife being very precisely placed on the edge of the tray, after which Brienne swings around to face him. “She asked me what I thought of you.”

  _“And?_ Honestly, Brienne, sometimes talking to you is like squeezing blood from a stone.”

 Long arms fold in between them and Brienne’s face lowers just enough so that she can glower levelly at him. If she’s aiming for menacing, she wears it too well, and as soon as Jaime’s composure cracks, laughter welling up from within, hers does too. She glances away, her mouth twisting, but then she is back with him, her eyes bright and her words plainly spoken. “I said that I believe you, Jaime. That she shouldn't be afraid of coming to ask you what she needed to hear, but that you might not tell her anything.”

 “You didn't tell her?”

 “Of course I didn't!” Brienne huffs in exasperation at the mere idea, and Jaime feels the very last of his lingering doubts in her stop niggling, as if evaporating into the air around them. “Jaime, Missy is my friend, and I care for her, but I didn't think I had the right to say anything you wouldn't. Better she went straight to you.”

 “Is it causing you problems?”

 “No,” she says, reaching across the table to pick up a cup full of dirty cutlery. “But then, I think she caught the measure of you, very quickly.”

 That smarts more than it should, but then Jaime has always prided himself on his ability to only appear to be exactly what people expect to see. “She seems to be frighteningly skilled that way.”

 “That she does.” Brienne smiles and picks up the full tray, heading off into the tiny utility room next to the tool cupboard. Walda can be heard in there, her words indecipherable, yet warmly teasing amongst the clatter of plates and pots being loaded into the dishwashers. Jaime gathers what remains of the used crockery along the abandoned tables, and once it is all piled neatly, picks up his nearly empty bottle. The beer inside it is unpleasantly tepid, but he finishes it off anyway as Brienne comes back and shifts the rest onto the now empty trays. She is done before she speaks again. “What are you thinking about, Jaime?”

 He swirls the bottle, the last of the foam in it running slowly around in the base of green glass. “Ellynor Leggstra.”

 “What? How?” Brienne hisses out, only to glare up at the door to 3A as if it were a venomous snake. “ _Tyrion.”_

 “He showed me a poster,” Jaime says, stepping in close with a lazy smile. “You didn't say she's a space _pirate_.”

 “Only when she's not trying to balance on her shoes. Did you see them?” Brienne grips her hips, her jaw set stubbornly in her objection to the entire concept.

 “Can’t say I did.” Jaime had simply been trying not to think about long, freckled legs conquering a planet. As an idea, he'd suddenly decided it was moderately fascinating.

 “Five inch platforms, made out of crystal, Jaime. _Crystal.”_  The sheer impracticality of it all seems to offend Brienne, in and of itself, though one further interesting thought does spring to _his_ mind.

 “That would make you seven feet tall, wouldn’t it?”

 “No. And it _never_ will, Jaime, because it’s _not_ happening. Anyway, I’m only a couple of inches taller than you.”

 “You think so?”

 “Yes,” she mutters firmly, tapping his shoulder. “Don’t slouch. Stand up straight. Jaime, I said _don’t_ slouch!” Jaime eventually manages to drag himself up to his full height in response, but he deliberately takes his time, unable to resist yet another outstanding opportunity to annoy her. It backfires, however, as Brienne, even her patience wearing thin, frankly hauls him against her. As she proceeds to slap her fingers on top of Jaime’s head in the time-honoured and deeply unscientific method of comparing heights used by children the world over, she is completely unaware that he has been struck as still as stone. Her hips are wide and he can feel her breasts, small but by no means unnoticed, pressed against him. Yet it is her scent that seems to take over his mind. He is used to her smelling of the sea as they swim and they squabble, but here and now, she smells of herself, and Jaime finds that difference troublingly interesting. Yet he only gets a moment to even think about it, barely even able to think the word ‘woman’ before Brienne takes a pace back, the side of her index finger resting against her forehead. “See? What’s that? An inch and a half?” she asks.

 Jaime coughs and shakes his head, coming back to himself so he can peer up at Brienne’s jaunty salute with the necessary amount of humour. “At least two,” he informs her, lifting his arm to rest his hand about a foot above her. “Besides, Brienne, I believe you’re forgetting the wig.”

 She bats his hand away like a fly. “There will never be a wig!”

 “Pity,” Jaime lies, as he is beginning to think he prefers Brienne’s relatively lifeless locks to any amount of piled high, copper red curls. He edges in, grinning up into blue eyes. “See, you have the whole furious space pirate glare thing down pat already.”

 “This is not a space pirate glare, Jaime. Just a furious one.” Brienne tries to hold onto it, but can’t, and steps around Jaime to pick up a recycling sack. Again, she rubs the flat plastic between her hands, two sharp sweeps of it through the air then enough to see it billow open. Then she starts to pick up the scattering of empty packets strewn across the table. Jaime starts to help, but she stops him. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I think that me and Walda have the task of cleaning up covered, between us.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Yes. You should probably go and check on your brother. Make sure he's managed to take his spins all the way to bed with him.”

 “You're right.” Jaime stares up at 3A speculatively. “Hopefully I won't have to fish him out of the toilet this time.”

 “Do you have to do that often?”

 “Not anymore. It's just an occasional holiday thing, nowadays. Those and family events.”

 Just the mention of his family appears to make Brienne feel skittish, though given everything he’s told her, she can hardly be blamed for it. “Your family,” she says timidly. “They sound –“

 “Let's just...not,” Jaime interrupts, and Brienne nods quickly in agreement.

 “I'll see you in the morning, then,” Brienne tells him. “Barsena's pot will be ready to go back, if you’re coming for our morning swim.”

 “Wild horses couldn’t stop me. Well, they could, technically, but it seems highly unlikely around here.”

 Jaime is about to leave her when a clatter comes from the utility room. Brienne is off at pace as the sound ends, even if a call that everything is fine sees her come right back and resume her work, farther along the table. Jaime wonders if she’s tired, for surely she must be, but guesses that if she is, she’ll never show it, let alone admit it. “Walda's right, Brienne,” Jaime says, walking over to her. He places his hand on her forearm for a fleeting second. “You should rest.”

 “Believe me,” Brienne says with a resigned sigh, “she'll make sure I do. Good night, Jaime.”

 “Good night, Brienne.” Jaime makes his way upstairs then, aware that until halfway up he is being watched, but by the time he gets to the top floor, it is he who briefly watches, leaning on the railings as Brienne moves around in the yard beneath him. Now that he is gone, she works far harder, her speed at plucking discarded packages and empty bottles from the shrubberies silently efficient. It’s a simple enough task, but Jaime finds her economy of movement fascinating, not quite overflowing with the ease of a dancer, yet wholly capable, her strength kept in check. It isn’t quite the same, not as free as the first morning he saw Brienne on the beach, but it feels more like her than the woman who tries so hard to be smaller when she is dealing with the guests here.

 He casts one final glance downwards when he turns and heads into the apartment, and that parting glimpse of her is puzzlingly captivating for a good minute or so. He leans against the door once it is closed behind him, entirely unable to understand how Brienne lifting a sack of rubbish and heading towards the bins, collecting the food bag on the way, could imprint itself so firmly in his mind. There might be something in the softer canting of her hips when she walks, and the gentler slope of her shoulders when she is alone, the tension she tends to carry with her released by that state. And she had been humming that damned tune he doesn’t know again, though it had been so soft that his ears barely caught it, even in the amplifying soundtrap of darkness. Perhaps it had been her deftly collecting the heavy food bag from the table, without looking or breaking stride, trusting her own judgment, her memory and her knowledge of how her own body works to just get this meaningless task done.

 Then Jaime realizes that, were he to have to complete a tick-box questionnaire on the matter, he would be inking the box marked ‘All of the above’. It’s pointless for him to think this way. He is all too aware of it. But at least now he is certain of one of the aspects of Miss Brienne Tarth that have taken a hold of him.

  _She is always more graceful when she thinks nobody else can see._

And Jaime allows himself to think, for just a lone, heady moment, that he would like to be nobody, so he could see it more often.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's chapter is an earlier one, and will pop up at about 06.45am, GMT.


	7. Ten Days - Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the usual.
> 
> Time: 06.45 GMT, or just after dawn, if that description suits the reader better.

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY SEVEN**

 

"I win!"

 Jaime scrambles to his feet when he hits the beach, water flying everywhere as he sprints for Brienne's towel and holds it aloft in victory. His opportunity for crowing proves short, the thump of larger feet on the sands behind him closing in swiftly. Even as he spins back to face her, Brienne's hand flashes out, and he only just manages to stop her from grasping the sandy cotton by flinging his arm backwards.

 "You did not!" Brienne accuses, her face florid with her own brand of stubborn fury. "You cheated! Again!"

 "You're the one wearing the go-faster suit," Jaime says, dancing back a couple of steps towards the sea when Brienne tries again to tear the towel from his grip.

 "Give it _here_ , Jaime," she insists, her glare pugnacious. That the calm and seemingly self-contained travel rep and history teacher of his acquaintance can be so easily brought to flaming ire by him is something that Jaime had discovered on this beach during only their second dawn swim. He's rather enjoying it, all told, and fully intends to make the most of the situation.

 "My, you _are_ tetchy this morning," he comments mildly, suddenly spinning around and launching into a run. He doesn't get far, a few long strides brought to a sudden, wrenching halt as Brienne finally snags a corner of her beloved towel and pulls hard on it, swinging Jaime about.

 "I'm not tetchy," she mutters through her teeth. "Just give me back my towel, Jaime."

 "How about no?" He rolls his complaining shoulder and instead of complying, decides to wrap what he can of the item in question around his left wrist, securing his hold on it. Brienne doesn't make it easy, however, tugging fiercely at the other end before mirroring his actions. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" Jaime grins.

 "Yes," Brienne grunts, though there is the barest flicker of a grim smile on her lips. If there is one thing Jaime knows for certain about Miss Brienne Tarth that he isn't sure anybody else does, it's that underneath the tedious carapace of manners and pointless devotion to her self-imposed duty, beats the heart of a woman who won't back down from a challenge. And she doesn't like to lose.

 Which all things considered, is ideal, as Jaime doesn't like to either.

 He gives another sharp tug to the beleaguered towel, experimentally so, which is matched by Brienne, who settles into a slight crouch, flexing her arm. Then suddenly, she lunges to one side, great fans of fine sand arcing up from her feet, clearly hoping to catch him off guard. It doesn't quite work, her heading for the rise of the beach slowing her just enough to allow Jaime to turn in time, resisting with some measure of equality.

 Her dour demeanour lifts yet more as they start to dance back and forth in a line, the power in one giving way at new infusions of the same from the other, in an ill-disciplined game of tug o'chains that sees the upper hand shift between them imperceptibly, neither one of them ever holding it for long, their laughter barely concealed. Their feet dig a furrow in the sand between them, almost ankle deep, though their services as a plough may never be recommended to anyone, anywhere, as they don't travel far. They are too well matched, in this fight, such as it is.

 Jaime eventually attempts to break the deadlock by darting past her right arm, trying to drive her off balance. She reacts instantly and Jaime ends up being swung around, almost like a club, all the way around her, a child in a schoolyard game until his feet splash through water for a few unsteady steps. As soon as they hit dry sand again, Brienne tackles him with nothing less than her wholly unadulterated strength, the air rushing out of him in a vicious hiss when he lands roughly on his back. The brutal force of it leaves Jaime unable to laugh, as much as he wants to, when knees are planted in the sand at the sides of his ribs, she towers over him, taller than his brother even now, and finally yanks her towel back into her possession.

 She grips his shoulder, leans over and waves it over his face, her lower lip held fiercely by her teeth.

 Jaime closes his eyes and feels a fine dusting of that sand rain over him marking his defeat, as much as any other thing could. He blinks, looking up at Brienne, his gaze floating up from firm thighs, held true around him, over her stomach and chest to long fingers as they twist old cotton in her hands.

 "Oh no, it’s torn," Brienne suddenly mutters. She sticks three fingers through a new hole in her beloved towel, and peers at it as if it is incomprehensible to her, even as a concept. The thick hem has been ripped, though not fully away, the nubbly folds of a heavily sewn, pale orange corner keeping the towel whole, but not undamaged. Once it gathers in her head, she frowns down at him. "You tore it!"

 "I think you'll find we both played our part," Jaime huffs out, though Brienne doesn't appear to hear him at all, her eyes already back on the threads hanging dolefully from the tear. Fingertips wiggle, and she slumps down onto her arse, solidly on him.

 Brienne is heavy, it is true, but not so much as to be off-putting, and if she is distracted, the sheer weight of her brings something sharply and rapidly into focus for Jaime. Something new and, if not entirely unexpected, given the constant teasing of others over the last few days, certainly something he can no longer deny.

 He is as damned hard as he has ever been, and Brienne sitting on him is not exactly making the issue disappear. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jaime digs his flung out fingers into the sand, damp grains packing in behind his short nails while he stifles a groan and keeps his hips deathly still; as Brienne, currently oblivious to his reaction, starts to fiddle with the edge of the towel, shifting her grip and bringing the tear together, pinching at it, as if working out how it can be mended.

 This complete lack of artifice only serves to try Jaime more. His sister flees his mind as soon as she inevitably enters it, years of guile and knowing movement rendered meaningless in the face of this new, and very different woman.

 He looks at her, every muscle in him straining against what he wants them to do, but will not allow, as sun-chapped lips bunch in frustration and cotton twists in the air, Brienne's task a world away from his own. 

 If jokes of candles and ice-creams were seen as the truth for others, his is found here. He wants Brienne, in every way she would possibly have him, and that rush of knowledge is too much, too harsh and blindingly new to be borne. She knows him. Yet even if she thinks better of him than she had during a night of what can only have been dire research, he would guess that there is every chance she would not want him, in any case. Liking and wanting are very different things.

 The movement of her fingertips slows, and Jaime panics.

 He drags his hands out from their sodden hiding places and claps them to her ribs, rolling onto his left hip underneath her to break that burning contact and tip her away to his side.

 His hastily formed plan, such as it was, doesn't go quite as he had anticipated. Brienne seems to see the move as a mere extension of their competition, and reacts in a split-second, dragging him around with her.

 "What are you _doing?_ I -" Her voice falls silent as Jaime lands atop her, and their bodies meet. If she had no idea before, she does now, the slightest nudge of flaming palm-trees against a night-dark suit finally enough to drag a low hiss of need from Jaime's throat. Brienne tenses completely beneath him, the embarrassment he might expect nowhere to be seen. Instead, she turns milk-bottle pale, her mouth hanging open in shock.

 It may not be the prettiest sight, all told, but if Jaime knows it, he no longer seems to _see_ it, his hands again curling into the sand to keep himself still. The gaps between the tops of his fingers and the nails there begin to hurt, and he wastes a moment wondering if he's going to end up clawing up the entire beach before they are done. But then he feels her ankle against the side of his right foot. "You were right about your legs," he offers, his voice rough. Brienne's eyes, which have started to flicker to the sky above, judder firmly back to him, as if questioning just about everything. Her face isn't far away. "They're longer than mine." With every shred of self-control he has left, Jaime wiggles his little toe against the upper reaches of her foot. Just that. Nothing more.

 Brienne flinches.

 It is the tiniest of reactions, unmatched by the look on Brienne's face, which continues to speak more of confusion than anything else, but it is enough. Jaime stares to one side, at his hand, where he delved it into the body of the beach. It would seem that with women, he can be nothing other than a fool. If he is bitter when he speaks again, he can't prevent it, the overwhelming feeling that he has aimed too high, that he always will, written deep in the scars that tell his history, on his wrist. "In my defence, I did try to hide it, but this only seems to have made matters worse."

 The words sound hollow, even to him, but too hard. And he doesn't even think about their content until Brienne lets out a soft, strangled gasp of distress beneath him.

 Jaime turns his face back to hers and a desperate internal struggle to dredge a single further syllable to say is lost, his mind caught between the needs of his body, which remain all too obvious, pressed between them, and the even newer confirmation of what he had suspected. That in knowing him, Brienne wanting him is inconceivable to her. Only a breath seems to pass as Jaime fails to gather himself, and he only has time to see her mouth the word 'worse' before he finds himself thrown aside, his hip hitting the sand with a brutal thump.

 Then Brienne is up and moving off, long, heavy paces eating up the ground needed to take her away.

 "Brienne?"

 She slows, but doesn't look back.

 "Brienne!"

 The word only serves as a whip to the flanks of a horse. Brienne breaks out into a determined run, which falters as she sees Barsena sitting under her fluttering canopy. From Jaime's viewpoint, he thinks he sees the older woman offer some sage advice, which Brienne clearly doesn't welcome. She just shakes her head, runs yet faster when her feet hit the paving slabs, and is gone.

 Jaime hauls himself up onto his knees, letting his breath flow out of him in a disgusted groan, and thumps a couple of times at the sand in frustration. "Fucking idiot. Couldn't you have chosen a better word than 'worse'?" He knows far less about Brienne's personal life than she does his, and even if he is starting to find her more than pleasing to his eyes, he would have to be a shit-ton of stupid not to understand that that kind of comment is one she has caught the arse-end of in her past, probably too often.

 For a short time, he simply stays there, letting the blood thundering through him ease and his cock slacken; wanting to follow her, but uncertain of how to make things right. Or even if they can be made so. What Jaime does know is that he won't grovel and beg. He has done enough of that in his life, and even if he is aware that Brienne's leaving had absolutely no underlying motive, he can't bring himself to go there again.

 Yet another thing he knows, as he rises to his feet, his eyes closed, is that he already values Brienne's friendship. There is a moment of unsteadiness as his legs straighten, which coincides with his decision that he would salvage that alone with her if, as he expects, anything else fails to materialize. He would fight to do so, he thinks, as he opens his eyes. And Jaime smiles.

 Because right in front of him, half-buried in the sand, is the damaged and forgotten victory trophy.

 Brienne, in her hurry to leave, has left her towel behind.

 Jaime should return it to her. It's seems like the fair thing to do. He _had_ cheated, after all.

 He plucks the towel from the beach and throws off some of the massive weight it seems to have picked up in its tortured folds, grains falling away with a hiss, damper clumps landing with barely audible thuds on their brothers and sisters.

 Then he follows Brienne, not with the same haste, but enough to have to slow himself when he approaches Barsena, who leans out over the trellis and opens her mouth to offer yet more of her worldly wisdom. Jaime forestalls it by saying, "That really wasn't the time, Barsena."

 Barsena's face falls, and it is clear that she meant no ill, whatever she had said. "I thought it was a small disagreement. Between lovers."

  _"Not_ lovers," Jaime grinds out as he passes her, his fingers tangling in the tear of the towel's hem.

 "Truly? Why not?"

 Jaime slams to halt and sends a cutting glare back over his shoulder. Barsena shrinks in her place then, regret written in the sagging of her arms on time-worn wood. "I apologize, Jaime," she says, and she means it. "We hoped it was so."

 "It's not." If his tone is bleak, he tries to soften the impact of it with an attempt at a grin, though it sits uneasily on him, much like the only arm-brace that he can remember of the many that he had been forced to wear for a few years. It didn't hurt, but it felt as if it belonged to somebody else, twisting him out of shape just enough to be wrong.

  _Wrong,_ he thinks, and shudders, missing a question from the undeniably stunning woman a few steps behind him. "What?"

 "Do you like her?"

 Each word comes at him as if with an exclamation point, and if it is mildly irritating, he doesn't think Barsena's concern is only spent on him. Or even primarily so. "If nothing else, I would be her friend. I have few enough of those. Real ones, I mean."

 Barsena looks at him then, dark eyes dissecting him, and Jaime feels scoured by the closeness of it, though she is yards away. "Then what are you doing standing here, talking with me?" Jaime doesn't get the chance to reply. Small hands flick out, the backs of them beating in his direction, her fingers splayed, like the brooms he's seen elderly women use to brush sand from their front doorsteps on his rides with Kharfan. "Go to her. Go! She needs you as a friend too."

 Jaime nods and moves on, the first few seconds taken up by his simply trying to discern if Barsena had meant anything more than the obvious by her final statement. But sometimes, he reasons, people simply need friends, and not everybody in the world is a fucking Lannister, as illustrated ably by last night's meal. Some people mean what they say, and he thinks that Barsena is firmly in that grouping.

 As is Brienne, and though he shouldn't feel an urgency to get to her on the flimsy pretext of returning her towel, he knows he should offer his own apologies. No begging. No grovelling. A simple 'sorry' for his own mouth running deeply badly when most of his attention was centred on his cock. However it turns out. For the truth. So his feet speed up, a suddenly parsed awareness of the difference between being willing to work for peace between him and those he cares for when he's done something poorly, against trying to work out what went so awry and apologizing, even if he was never sure he did anything so completely despicable in the first place, so clear he could almost laugh at it.

 It's still early, so the only person he sees on the way back is a local meat vendor. They almost collide when the young man suddenly opens the door and jumps from the cab of his white van, but Jaime stops in time and lets him do his work. He watches the lad wrestle a large side of meat, wrapped in large amounts of white, waxen paper and thin string, from the side door and drop it in front of a home, refusing any help before Jaime passes by. He hears a sharp knock on wood, a minute or so later, as he turns into the lane leading to Sunshine Apartments. Leaving meat outside in this place would be madness, Jaime thinks. His mid-finger is still caught in the tear of Brienne's towel, and he shakes it again, loosing more of the beach as he walks through the archway and into the yard.

 He stares around at the entrances to all the apartments as he comes in, but as he anticipated, there are no signs of life yet.

 So Jaime simply doesn't think before heading into 1E to give back Brienne's rather bedraggled looking towel. It isn't locked so it barely even occurs to him to knock. He has already closed the door, holding the torn-edged, thick cotton resting over his hand straight out as a humble peace offering, before his mind catches up with what he is seeing. And everything stops. Jaime can't breathe, and not even the abused and damp item resting over his fingers dares to swing in this enclosed space, though it surely should. There is stillness everywhere, in his perception all over the world, as he looks at Brienne.

 She is unmoving too, her right arm caught at the elbow in undone neoprene. The zip of her highly professional, yet cheaply bought, practice suit is pulled down, the line of black leading up from navel to neck skewed to the left along her torso, the tightness in it having been released. Much of her remains unseen, but as if a part of her has been sliced into his vision by a sword cut, Jaime cannot fail to see the entirely still upper planes of her stomach, her ribs, and one plainly exposed breast.

 Yet it is not plain, he thinks. Small, yes. Sat upon a body too large for it, maybe. But not for him. It is a gentle, beautiful curve, a diminutive suggestion of womanly roundness, all told, but Jaime thinks it suits Brienne very well. And himself too. In fact, he can't think of anything better than her softness being kept away from those who would not deserve it.

  _I don't deserve it._

Jaime tries to push that aside as dizziness threatens, and roughly hauls in some truly needed air. "Breathe, Brienne."

 She does it, and it is a quicker, more panicked affair. Jaime wishes he could be as restrained as she had been on his first day here, to look at the kettle clearly sat on the side in the here and now, but he doesn't have the will. And certainly not when her left hand rises, as if to cover that dear little breast, though she doesn't stop looking at him and therefore fails to properly do so, the small tip of dark pink nipple ending up sitting easily between two fingers.

 It is only then that Jaime looks away, because he has to. The gesture is too innocent, too good. It is not for him, nor could it ever be.

 And then she breaks him. For she apologizes, needlessly, albeit it in hesitant words. "I'm sorry, Jaime. I was upset. I didn't think to lock the door."

 "Why? What do you mean?" Jaime asks, and he knows his voice is deep, for rarely has it ever been more so. He really hopes that Brienne is not looking south at the moment, because his cock suddenly feels even more heavy and wanting in front of him, and he doesn't think that any amount of badly printed flames or palm trees can disguise the fact.

 In this room, Brienne is a monolith still, but a frail one, as if made of the finest sand herself. A moment of wind could blow her away, should it come. Her vulnerability fills the room, though she does not move. Jaime's thoughts are stolen by her left hand holding her right breast so sweetly, until her head drops. "Please. Don't laugh at me."

 "Laugh at you?" Jaime says, the words rasping, his throat made suddenly dry. His gaze flickers about him, unsure how to approach this, until he sees a plain wooden chair off to one side. He had thought that years of fucking his own sister had taught him to be quiet, when needed, but never has he been so much as now. When he peels the soles of feet from the cool tiles, he curses himself for making too much noise as he steps over to place the towel gently over the chair's back, with more quiet skill. He looks at Brienne openly as her head rises so she can see him again too.

 "Brienne," he says softly, walking towards her slowly with feet of lead, afraid with every step drawing him closer that he will be rejected, told to leave. But though he can almost feel her shivering in her place, each step seems to mean something different to Brienne, fear morphing into something else, something different, more curious. Yet the battle is not even near to won when he is in front of her, her doubt in her own body drenching the room, and he raises his left hand. It is shaking. "I'm not laughing," Jaime whispers. He places his hand delicately over hers, not daring to touch her anywhere else. "I'm not," he affirms, rubbing the pad of his thumb over hers, over the wrinkles on her knuckle and the wide blade of her nail.

 Brienne drops her head again briefly, a stuttering breath falling out, the warm coolness of it dancing over them both. And when she looks at him again, Jaime could be doubled over by her eyes alone. There is an ocean of everything in them. Her fear and doubt are there, unquestionably. But above those, and any other of the million things to be found in a whirl of blue, is trust. Of him.

  _Of me._

It is Jaime's turn to look down, to breathe unsteadily, the fact that only their hands are touching making no difference to his heart leaping in his chest. He raises his head back up slowly, and smiles at her. He could say a thousand words, but none seem fitting, so he lifts his hand away a little and starts to run his forefinger over hers. Only then does he dare let a thick pad of skin of his owning fall to that small rise underneath their fingers, a small feel of her. A little finger brushing past another, feeling for her curve, towards her side.

 Brienne is neither still nor silent under it, her sudden, soft cry not desperate now, but full of longing. It sweeps underneath the low ceiling and seems to hold him. She isn't cold, but she is covered in goose pimples. He can see them on her arms. He can feel them with his fingertip.

 And Jaime wants to taste them, under his tongue. So he does, even if he takes his time; his head dropping with an aching slowness, being careful not to alarm her as his closed lips fall, first to her hand and then to the lightly freckled skin above it. Even there, any real swell is absent, it all being kept in a cage, behind fingers a touch longer than his own. Jaime doesn't care. He had never given freckles a spare thought before arriving here, but if they are sparser than those to be found on Brienne's face and her forearms, this glimpse of her body is enough to have him ditch the idea of just being her friend, if they can ever be anything else. He wants to spend the rest of his life checking to see if the tiny, dark blemishes on her skin taste different to those on any other part of her. He knows they won't, but he wants to try.

 He feels awkward when he finally risks a lick, and not just because he has firmly stationed his hips somewhat apart, saving Brienne from being aware of the dire situation of his cock, which simply needs her. It makes him shorter, what with the leaning in, but it is when the tip of his tongue encounters a sparse dusting of the beach, all roughness and salt, that he laughs, albeit softly. He feels her start to tense once more, and Jaime shakes his head, keeping his mouth in contact with her skin. "It's just sand," he mutters against her. "I didn't think that could happen in your go-faster suit."

 Brienne immediately relaxes, any worry in her gone. "It can. Cheater."

Jaime lifts his head up for a moment, winks, and then gets back to his task, which he thoroughly enjoys. Yet if the broad plain between those cupped fingers and a frankly delectable collarbone are something he wants, there is something else he needs more. So he takes his mouth back to her hand, quite happy to let it play there. He kisses, nips and sucks his way in from each side to the middle, until the only thing left there to explore is what is sat so neatly between two fingers, pink and puckered.

 He doesn't delay, he can't, his tongue and lips dancing over what they can get to of that lone nipple as soon as he feels they can do so. And if what little he has done before was accepted, this proves to be beyond anything he could have imagined. He can feel it, even in the hand he has dropped from hers to her wrist; the change in her posture, the arching of her back. She seems to become softer under his mouth, and he follows her, a minimal sway from left to right an earthquake in his head, made stronger by the short murmurings of pleasure Brienne lets escape her. They change very quickly, corralled from the low moans of a lover into something more restricted; gentle sighs and short, sharp grunts as a dance of teeth or stubble alter sensation.

 Yet if he could stay here forever, he is not alone in this room. Her room.

 "Jaime." He already knows what this tortured word means, though his name is uttered with a thick want he isn't certain anybody else has ever heard, so he presses a final kiss to Brienne's shoulder, his mouth closed and his head bowed to her. And he waits for the end to come. It doesn't take very long, though there a few precious seconds where his senses seem to go into overdrive. He can still taste the sea from her skin and he can see that her neck, if not graceful, is strong, even as she swallows repeatedly in a struggle to speak past rapid little gasps, all held in as much as she can strive to do so. Underneath his lips, he can feel the shallow band of sand that has managed to settle in the hollow behind that collarbone, and the light from the window makes the very fine dusting of it shine over freckled skin. One in particular catches his eye, and he commits it to memory, complete with the three miniscule grains glinting there, the awareness that this will be as well as he will ever know it twisting his stomach.

 “Jaime,” Brienne says again. There is a sharp snap of neoprene as she frees her right arm and a large hand, warm and shaking, cups his face, then lifts it. He can hardly bring himself to look her straight in the eyes, though when he does they are empty of any accusation or anger, and her words hold nothing but warmth. “We shouldn’t.”

 "And why would that be, Brienne?" His tone, in contrast, is less than wholly accepting of her chosen course, his jaw clenching as the reality of his truly being less than she might want washes through him. At his having taken such a risk, only to be rejected.

 It is as if he has said it out loud. "It’s _not_ you, Jaime," Brienne says, her thumb brushing over a grey patch at the side of his chin. "It’s _us_."

 "There is no us," he grunts, turning away and taking a few steps towards the door. They feel unsteady, though he's certain it doesn't show. He slows and glances back at her. "You just made that clear."

 "There can be no us, Jaime," Brienne insists. It is enough to drive him to face her again, but he can see her mind is made up, so what is there left to say? If he has no argument to offer or perhaps any right to one, however, Brienne isn't done, and her free hand reaches out towards him as she speaks again, just a small bending of her arm, as though timidly seeking his understanding. "If I thought for a minute that we could do this, and walk away in three days unhurt, I would say yes." A ragged breath of relief escapes Jaime, unmissable to either of them, and Brienne smiles.  "There’d be nothing wrong with that," she says, though then she becomes more serious. "But I don’t think you could. And I _know_ I can’t." Her gaze drops to the floor, and she whispers, "We're not that kind."

 Jaime looks away, a tight knot seeming to fill his throat, though the sensation doesn't last. He smiles as he finally manages to catch sight of the kettle, and when he understands that if he came into this tiny apartment for the truth, to offer it, he has taken close to as much as he can stand in return. "You do pick your moments to be more spectacularly right than ever well, don’t you?"

 He watches her head lift, a small spark of defiance in her eyes. "Maybe."

 "I’m not going to pretend I’m not interested, Brienne. Believe me, I am."

 Her mouth opens as if to laugh, but none comes out. "I wouldn’t expect you to, Jaime. I...I am too," she adds hesitantly, if without any other hint of doubt. "But do you really think either us wants a 'holiday fling'?"

  _Yes. No. I don't know._ "That would be tacky, wouldn’t it?"

 "Not as tacky as your shorts."

 For a few seconds, Jaime's equilibrium returns, this miniscule retreat into what has so rapidly become their way something to cling on to; a life raft in an unmapped sea. Naturally, he immediately ruins the effect. "Which you are carefully avoiding looking at, I see," he says, gently thrusting his hips forwards, but only once as it proves a bad idea, the rub of damp polyester, or whatever the hells they are made of, too sharp of a reminder of the wants of his cock.

 If he grimaces at the need for restraint, and he is sure he does, Brienne merely notes it with a soft grin, her gaze doggedly glued to his face. "I am," she says. "I need to shower and start working, Jaime."

 "I know."

 He doesn't move, but then neither does she. He openly looks at her, drinking her in. Her legs, her height, her tangled hair, her left hand, still resting over barely the only part of her he has dared to kiss, and Brienne's head slowly tilts to one side, an expression of bewildered curiosity settling over her features. If she can't quite seem to see why anyone would want to look at her as a potential lover, Jaime isn't about to do anything other than precisely that. So for minutes, they stand stock still, Jaime's eyes wandering all over her, and Brienne's fixed to his face, locked in a search for her own sort of understanding.

 As standoffs go, it isn't trying, but in the end Brienne breaks it, a sudden smile, bashful yet bright, running counter to her quiet words. "You should probably go."

 Jaime shudders, as if back into life. "I know," he says, turning and dragging his feet with purposely overwrought reluctance as he makes his way to the door. He opens it and checks that the yard is still empty, which it is. But as he steps out into the cool, shady air of the morning, he can't quite resist stopping the door closing, sticking his head back in to offer a parting shot. "Doesn't mean I want to. By the way, I was wrong about pink not being your colour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommorrow's chapter will become available at 17.00 GMT.


	8. Ten Days - Day Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the broken pieces of my dignity and some Marmite.
> 
> Time: 17.00 GMT

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY EIGHT**

 It is late in the afternoon when Jaime finally speaks to Brienne again. She had been absent at the beach in the early hours and any brief glimpses of her since yesterday morning have seen her being almost too busy taking care of the other guests in Sunshine Apartments, as if she is searching out things to keep herself occupied. Jaime eventually finds her tucked away in the sweltering heat of the laundry room; a miniature sort of launderette even, with coin operated machines that Jaime would have no idea how to work in the first place, his exposure to them having ever been somewhat limited.

 Brienne is sitting on a bench in front of three capacious yellow dryers. Billowing white folds can be seen tumbling within each through round windows. Given time and boredom, it might be quite soothing, but Jaime can't tell if she finds it so, as Brienne's back is turned from the sight and her gaze is also avoiding the less inspiring image of the four silver washers across from her rattling in their places at various speeds. Her attention is firmly glued to a small, red-bound book. Well worn, it rests flat across an outstretched palm, its spine long since broken.

 She can't have missed his presence, so Jaime considers it to be a helpful gesture if he chooses to prod Brienne into showing a guest a proper level of politeness, even if it is merely him. Service seems to be her driving force here, after all. He walks slowly past her to pull at the orange plastic chair that is homed, perhaps unwisely, under a low shelf which is showing signs of straining under the weight of many assorted bottles of detergents. The smell of this smorgasbord of chemicals is thick in the air, though it isn't unpleasant. A rather bright and somewhat amusing sign, proclaiming 'Please use me' is held to the wall next to the products with yellowing tape, the bubble writing cheerily coloured but fading against the sickly pink of the walls. Given the age of the sheet of paper, its edges curled and stained, he hardly thinks it the work of the schoolteacher present, but it makes Jaime smile nonetheless. It could well apply to him, he muses, a thought relatively new, yet completely untroubling to him. The dark metal of the chair legs hums discordantly against the lino flooring as he swings it about. Settling it into place, he sits right in front of Brienne, quite pleased to note that not all of his faculties are lost when his knees, when he pulls them in tidily, end up barely an inch from hers, though he has to swing his feet away some to avoid a collision of twenty large toes.

 Yet still she doesn't look at him. Jaime doesn't mind, and drops his elbows onto his legs, settling his chin neatly into his cupped palms. "So, this is where you've been hiding."

 Her massive ribcage inflates and then deflates under plain white cotton. "I'm not hiding," Brienne mutters, turning over a page. She visibly swallows, as if trying to take in a small fish-bone without making any kind of fuss in front of company whilst she's perishing, before adding, "I'm washing dirty clothes and bedlinens."

 "In public?" Jaime asks, his tone all too wry.

 Only then does she venture to glance at him. And huge blue eyes meet his, fully but faintly admonishing above the narrow lenses of wire-rimmed reading glasses which are propped almost delicately on the end of her long, slightly crooked nose. The view may be alarmingly discordant, but that does nothing to render it any less pleasant to Jaime. It is a brief flicker of a thing, that look of hers, but he would have to be the liar that he has been thought to be for so long to deny that it affects him in a way he would have thought unimaginable mere days ago. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, willing certain parts of his anatomy to silence as he _sees_ her. He is neither a fool, nor blind. Brienne is the very opposite of everything that Jaime would have ever claimed to have wanted in woman. Most of his life has been an all-consuming testimony to that. Yet this woman is the impossible, made real. Is she actually beautiful, or even pretty? No. Never. A thousand miles of distance could not make her so. Jaime knows it. She is too large, too wide, too strong, and made more of an assemblage of rough parts that would be better suited to a hulking sort of man, in any case. But Brienne lending him her trust had started changing things. Turning them upside down. And now it feels like an avalanche, even as she sits here, hiding from Jaime in plain sight.

 It is whilst Brienne stares doggedly down at one page, her eyes now unmoving over anything so tiresome as words, that Jaime understands that her sometimes frustratingly innate goodness will always sweep all before it, if it is only given the chance to do so.

  _It has for me._

So now he is certain that she is beautiful after all. Jaime doesn't care if it will only ever be so for him, though he is coming to doubt it. How can others not see it? Can they all be that blind? He listens again, in his head, to the confusion of gentle sighs and whimpering moans that he had heard yesterday, an uncertain, broken chorus that he is now happy to admit to himself made him want as nothing ever has before.

 Maybe Brienne is right. Their histories, though she knows far more of his than he hers, would show neither of them to be the sorts to dabble. But if Jaime is ever to 'be' with another woman, he would like it to be this one, if she is willing. He has a feeling, however, that she will not make any such request easy, no matter how much she may be inclined to. And nor will he, though he wants her. After all, he is starting to learn that opposition need not be bitter, or hurried, or a sprint into the grasping of what can be, in the shadows. It can be softer, deeper. Less of a swift rush to overwhelming pleasure, but something more textured that can lead to it. And that things can also be less meaningful than that too.

 He flails his right arm out and shakes it, before raising his right hand and thumbing through the very edges of the corners of the pages Brienne has already read, as if it were a flickbook. Though he is not much of a committed one, Jaime is a reader himself, and he knows how annoying that can be. She hasn't replied to his previous question. Perhaps she might to this.

 "What are you reading?" he asks.

 She sighs, but answers him.  "A historical overview of the Great Southronly Migration, after the Wall fell."

 "Fascinating," Jaime mutters. "Very...scholarly."

 Brienne taps softly at his offending thumb. She isn't fooled. "What are you up to, Jaime?"

 "Well, what with you being a teacher, those socks of yours, and now the glasses, I'm beginning to believe you have a secret list of kinks I never knew I had. I thought you might be using it as a bookmark."

 Her mouth drops open. "I do _not_ -," she begins, but stops, unable to do anything but catch imaginary flies as the redness in her cheeks increases. Eventually, she closes the small book, placing it softly to one side, and slowly removes her glasses with her right hand. She studies Jaime, or so it seems, for a while, only for her brow to furrow. "My socks?" She kicks her left heel out slightly, keeping her toes firmly in place, so she can peer towards her ankle and Jaime groans.

 "You see? There's that too!" At Brienne's silent and mildly annoyed rendering of the word 'what', he explains, pointing at her foot. "You tend to do that when you're feeling embarrassed or shy. I've seen it a few times now and it's fucking adorable. What are you _doing_ to me, Brienne?"

 "Nothing!" she protests fiercely, sliding her feet firmly back together.

 "I know!" he groans back, only to end up shrugging and smiling at her in resignation. "That's probably it." He starts to laugh and Brienne does too, though it is a soundless shaking in her.

 It lasts only a short while, morphing into a twitching sort of grin, as she struggles to ask, "But really, Jaime, my _socks_?"

 "I don't know, Brienne," Jaime admits, unable to quite cease laughing just yet. He leans back on the chair, the low back pressing hard beneath his shoulder blades, and lets it wear off. "But I promise you that before a few days ago, the amount of thought I had ever given to ankle socks was vanishingly small. One might say non-existent." He tilts his head and looks at them again for a moment, noting that for once, the bow in her right shoelace is uneven. Then, smitten, he stares into confused eyes. "I think it may have more to do with the wearer than anything."

 Brienne reaches out and brushes her left fingertips against Jaime's knee. "Thank you," she says, then resting her hand in her lap, and becoming serious. "Truly, Jaime. But it doesn't change what we are. I have to work for Lennart. I must, because I care for him, and in two days you will be gone. With what little time we would be able to scrape together, I can only see us both ending up hurt. We just aren't that kind."

  _We're not that kind._

 Jaime rankles at that a little. "We both know that _I'm_ not that kind, Brienne. But I don't really know that about you, do I?"

 If the question falls out of him suddenly, even such a soft rejection making him bitter, Brienne doesn't appear to mind, nodding at him slowly before he can retract it, only to stare down at lino to her right in deep thought. But then her head rises and she nods at Jaime with more conviction. "I am not very experienced," she quietly begins, and Jaime halts her.

 It was a bad question, and one he has no right to ask in the first place. He knows it. "You don't have to - "

 "I do," she stops him, in his turn. "It's fine, Jaime. You have shared so much of yourself with me. I should show you the same level of trust, even if this," she waves her right hand and the reading glasses, one earpiece still clasped flimsily in long fingers, flail between them, "is all we'll ever be. You deserve that. Underneath it all, I think you've often acted with the best of intentions. And I don't think you've _ever_ been trusted enough. By anyone."

 She could turn him to stone, this woman, Jaime thinks, time running slow in a swirl about him, whilst he sees her wrestle with what she will tell him. "As I said, I'm not very experienced," Brienne says, though then she seems troubled, a brief shadow flickering over her features before she starts to speak again, her eyes falling to the hideous flooring once more. Her words come more unevenly now, the blush covering her still heightened. "I mean to say...I...I know myself well enough," she continues with difficulty.

 Jaime seeks to set her mind at ease somewhat, the very idea of her exploring her own body quite sufficient to send most of his thoughts to some extremely happy places. "I _knew_ you had a list."

 Brienne smiles then, bashfully red, and shrugs in a small way, even as she shakes her head. Another deep breath rushes into her. "In my life, I have spent one night with a man." Again, Jaime can nearly feel her squirming in her skin, though there are no outward signs of it. She looks weary as she adds, "Well, not the whole night. He was gone in the morning."

 There is such a dull acceptance of the fact, layered with a self-imposed knowledge that this is the only way things could ever be for her, that Jaime feels the back of his neck tingle worryingly. "Was it consensual?"

 His question may have been too forcefully offered, as Brienne stares at him in outright shock. "Yes!" she insists. "It was...okay. It was afterwards that it went downhill."

 "How so?" Jaime is still uneasy, not finding her words exactly reassuring.

 And this is the part that makes her most deeply uncomfortable, it is all too clear. Brienne can no longer visibly hide her discomposure, her feet slowly tipping back and forth from heels to toes beneath their view, that pale blue skirt of hers sounding absurdly loud as the rising and falling of her knees makes it rub over her lightly freckled thighs. Jaime notes the point where the parts of her legs which have seen the sun recently meet those which generally remain hidden. Where those meandering fields of sun-touched brown speckles grow thinner. Where her skin is yet paler. And he knows that whatever she has encountered, it was made by fools.

 Then he looks her squarely in the eyes. "You can tell me, Brienne."

 "I know," she says. "I've just...I've never really spoken about this before. Not even to my closest friend. Well, not much."

 Jaime raises an eyebrow extremely sharply, not needing to mention that there is unlikely to be anything she can tell him that would trouble the sheer scale of skeletons he has hidden away, and it makes Brienne smile. "Alright!" she chides him, tipping her head from side to side very quickly, like a sportsman readying himself for that crucial moment in a championship. She settles, and smiles at him, though it feels hollow. "Hyle was at the same teacher training college with me. He was nice." At Jaime's exaggerated eye-roll, she huffs. "He was nice _at the time_ , Jaime. And yes, I was an idiot for believing it. The next week," she pauses, and Jaime would swear he can hear her berating herself for being all kinds of naive, "was awful."

Brienne becomes outwardly pained, and Jaime wants to hold her, because this isn't a week's worth of damage. It is a lifetime's. He doesn't, simply watching her as her thumbs brush over her skirt and she leans back, her head bumping against the door of the drier behind her, the sheets whirling like a round storm, circling around her neatly pinned-back and plaited hair. "Back then, I never understood that women were subject to such comparisons," Brienne says, almost too blandly. "I mean, I did, of course I did. I just never thought they would be applied to _me_. I'd been alone throughout uni, with no real friends. I was so busy with training, then recovery, and apart from that I had to study and work evenings and weekends. I hate to tell you, Mr Lannister, but not every young person can expect a healthy annual income from their rich parent."

 "Get out of town! Really?" Jaime can understand her side-step, and decides to play along. He doesn't think it matters if those few words are all she ever wants to say. The picture is already painfully clear enough, and if her approach to talking about herself is the flat opposite of his, a peeling back of layers instead of a sudden leap into the unknown, he finds her all the more fascinating for it. "My future looks bleak then," he sighs, answering the questioning flicker of her fingers with, "Well, you see, my father's last offering was his final one, what with me unspeakably ancient now. I fear my future holds a plethora of tinned foods, if you can believe such a horror."

 "Oh. Does it now?"

 "No," he admits with a grin. "Just one year of it would have been enough to make anybody fairly secure for life, with a bit of work. I may have failed to mention that to my father over the last couple of decades, but it isn't as if I didn't try. He just made it clear that he never wanted me to. So now I'm rich as well. Not super-rich, as he is, naturally."

 "I don't even know where the super-rich line is drawn," Brienne says.

 "Fifty mill."

 "Your father has _fifty million_ dragons?"

 If Brienne is aghast, her face twists yet further as he tells her, "You might want to add a zero. Maybe two. I'm not sure. It's been a while since I've been in on discussions about the family finances. Ex-con, and all that. Best to keep the coin publicly whiter than white, as I remember the tedious lectures from my relative youth. Plus there's the fact that I want fuck all to do with it."

 It takes Brienne a while to stop looking at him as though he were a sample under a microscope, her head slowly moving a little closer, and then farther away, as if to find some level of focus on him. Jaime can almost see her composing a list of worthy charities to which such enormous levels of wealth could be bent. He doesn't disagree, having already donated more than a quarter of his ample annually gifted finances to a number of causes he thought creditable, though not even Brienne has the ability to drag that out of him quite yet. He is Jaime Lannister, the Orphanmaker, and he always will be. It's a name he still carries with him, every day, even if it has been mostly forgotten. Once people remember, there is no point in denying it. He is what he did. It is what he is.

 Yet Brienne doesn't seem to think of him as purely that, and she proves it now, setting her newly borne disgust at that kind of personal wealth aside and smiling at him. Jaime can see the bemusement in her, even the awkwardness at having asked about his father's wealth, let alone his. Jaime has never quite known where the boundary that sees asking about coin becoming rude lies, having grown up around so many who offhandedly speak of their often questionably acquired millions as if they were nothing in the world's most skewed game of one-upmanship.

 Wherever that line is, it is rendered meaningless when Brienne shrugs and lightly asks, "How are you going to find those tins, do you think?"

 "Terrible, I'm sure, but I'm more worried about the dried noodles. Do you know how many flavours there are? Tyrion took me into an Essosian warehouse store in King's Landing, a few years back. There were two fucking _aisles_ of them. Where do I even start?"

 "Duck." The answer is instant. "I would go with duck. Though the choice of egg or rice noodle is a personal one. If possibly controversial, judging by the views of Walda and Oberyn." Then she frowns. "Which I suppose takes me back to my less than glorious college days."

 "You really don't have to do this, Brienne."

 Suddenly, as if without movement, her face fills his vision, the tip of her nose so close to his that his skin seems to tingle there. "It would seem to be my day for truths, Jaime. I would give them to you, if you'll have them."

 Her breath smells of something like melon. He wonders if she tastes like it too, though shakes that line of thought away and leans back in his chair. "Hit me."

 Brienne mirrors his action, her shoulders thudding against the yellow drier behind her. "I will, if you laugh."

 "I've already transferred my ticket from Laughter Town to Anger Central. I have a feeling I'll be heading there very soon."

 "It's not quite _that_ bad," Brienne mutters, her right eyebrow flickering up and down in thought. "Where was I? Right. I was pretty much alone throughout uni. My dad died suddenly about halfway through my degree, but it wasn't until I started teacher training that everything was settled and I could stop working to pay for my upkeep." Her eyes roll. "Some distant cousins tried to contest my father's will, even though he wasn't exactly rich."

 "I thought that vultures were only common in wealthier circles," Jaime says, unwilling to point out that, if anything, she has taken a step back in the story. It seems easier for her, and he wants to hear everything she has to say in any case.

 Brienne laughs again, but it is the nervous sort that is normally paired with sheer disbelief. "They're not, Jaime, I promise you. Honestly, the first thing I had to do when I got back to Tarth was to stop Lennart being _arrested._ Four cousins arrived out of thin air and demanded that the solicitor let them into dad's house, and then they proceeded to lay claim to all of his things. They actually brought along those tiny little round stickers in different colours and were putting them on his furniture."

 "They were not!"

 "They were. It was quite the free-for-all, I'm told. Lennart, who absolutely did not need a wheelchair back then, was throwing them bodily out into the street when I arrived. He was shouting at the solicitor, who said that as they were mentioned in the will, he was legally obliged to let them in. By the time the police arrived, Lennart had lost it. I was holding him back from them all, and he was turning the air blue." Brienne shakes her head. "I was distraught, but with hindsight, it was a bit of a farce."

 "A bit of a farce? I could think of stronger terms." Jaime can't help himself then. He begins to laugh.

 Brienne seems to understand that it is not aimed at her, but rustles up a mild glare. "Should I be hitting you now?"

 "No," Jaime chuckles. "I was just thinking that I'd better start buying those stickers in bulk for when my father kicks it. I'd guess Tyrion already has, and even if I have him physically beat, I wouldn't put it past the shifty bastard to hire a team of acrobats to stake his claim for him."

 "Nor would I," Brienne grins, only for it to drop away a second later. She takes in a slow, deep breath, and lets it out. "So, by the time I started teacher training, I'd had no time for anything else. For people. I didn't really know anything." Jaime falls into silence and simply watches Brienne transfer her gaze from him to the peeling paint on the ceiling. "So, I met Hyle, we went out. We did 'the deed'," she says flatly, colouring only a little as she looks back at Jaime. "Like I said, it was okay. It was a relief to get it out of the way, to be honest."

 Jaime nearly chokes on that. "A relief to get it out of the way?"

 "Yes." She slowly tips her head to one side. "Have you any ideas about the stories young women are told about sex?"

 "No."

 "Be grateful for it. They range from blood and horror to singing choirs of happiness." Her cheeks grow heated. "People rarely talk about the fumbling middle ground."

 "There was fumbling?"

 "When _isn't_ there?"

 Jaime doesn't have to bother resorting to memory to concede that her bluntly put point could be right, at least at first. "Fair enough. So, it was 'okay'." He pauses, and cuts to the chase. "And then came the next week."

 "The next week," Brienne whispers, turning her face away and closing her eyes. She is perfectly still for what feels like an age, and even when she starts to speak again, nothing but her mouth moves. "I never expected anything to come of it. I didn't really want anything to. But I didn't expect," she pauses, her eyes fluttering back open and swinging back to meet Jaime's. They are bright with old pain. "I didn't expect every detail to become a subject of open debate." Her right hand rises, and the glasses that she still holds waver unsteadily around her face and then lower, across her chest. "Needless to say, there were parts of me that didn't exactly get rave reviews." Jaime's rage begins to bubble, only to boil over when Brienne speaks again, each word heavy with humiliation. "In the canteen. At lunchtime. In front of his friends and everybody I'd met there." Her eyes rise to the ceiling and her neck twists awkwardly. Jaime knows there is something else, he knows it, and almost doesn't want to hear Brienne, broken-down into something small, not herself, as she tells him, "He left that day with a fist full of paper dragons. I can't think why."

 Jaime can only spend a second or so seeing Brienne immersed so unhappily in her past before he has to intervene. She is elsewhere. So he reaches out, placing his hands over her kneecaps and bending in, all too willing to look up at her. "'I don't know how wagering works.' That's what you said, Brienne."

 "I don't," she says, looking at Jaime sadly. "Not before, not then, and not now. I just don't want to hear the technicalities of it."

 "I see," Jaime tells her, before trying to lighten the load. "So, this Hyle. Was he a crazed imbecile of some sort? A blind idiot? A one-legged donkey-man who was so busy trying to keep upright that he'd lost his senses?"

 Brienne laughs softly.  "No. He was just a man. I've met him since and he has apologized, Jaime. He knows it was wrong. He's even asked me out again a few times, more recently."

 "He did _what_?"

 "Oh, I've always refused. The first time, I broke his nose. Well, mine too, but his was worse."

 "You headbutted him?"

 "Twice." She shrugs and lifts her fingers gingerly to the bridge of her nose. "The second one might have been a mistake."

 "I certainly don't think so. But he asked again? Even after that?"

 "I wouldn't worry, Jaime. I'm under no illusions with Hyle. Let's just say that his career hasn't quite panned out as he'd hoped. He's been working as a supply teacher for the last couple of years, and the school I work at is definitely on the up. He wants an 'in'." She glances down at the tattered lino. "So to speak."

 "You're not considering it, are you?"

 "No! If I thought he was any good at his job, I'd just tell my boss anyway."

 "You would, wouldn't you?" At her brief nod, Jaime shakes his own head, because he believes it. He believes she would do it, despite everything. "Brienne, he might have seen some sense, if for the wrong reasons, but I'm still sure that _Hyle_ ," he states, a name he had never heard before today already tasting vile on his tongue, "must have had some kind of sub-par, idiot jellyfish thing going on." Brienne shakes her head solemnly, but Jaime won't have it, now bending down to rest his chin on his fingers, cupped as they are over Brienne's knees. Looking up at her from that viewpoint is difficult, but entirely worth it. Her eyes are so fucking blue. "Lest we forget, Miss Tarth, I have seen your right breast, and done more to it besides."

 Brienne opens her mouth to speak but then closes it again, silently brushing her thumb against his fringe, so gently it is like he is some kind of mirage, to be driven away by anything more than the lightest of touches. "I know," she whispers, dropping her hand away, "I was there."

 "It would have been bloody odd if you weren't," Jaime smiles. "And you should probably know that if you would like me to entirely and, I might add, scientifically, refute the 'not exactly rave reviews' of Hyle the epically visually impaired moron, I am willing to make the sacrifice. I'll step up. I'll do the same to your left breast too."

 "How brave of you to offer, and with 'science' as well," Brienne mutters fondly, lifting his face gently from her knees.

 "There's also the fact that I just want to, but I figured the scientific approach might hold more sway," he says, sitting up slowly, her fingers still cupping his cheeks. "And there's a more important issue to consider, of course."

 "Is there, Jaime?" She taps lightly at his cheekbones. "Do tell."

 "What if leftie is feeling left out, or in, technically? Rightie got all that attention, so dear leftie must be feeling terribly sorry for itself. And what if rightie is teasing leftie about it? 'I got all the kisses and you got none!' Did you even think about that, Brienne? Did you spare poor, neglected leftie but a single thought? _Did_ you?"

 By this point, Brienne's hands are gone from him, slammed over her own red face, not so much laughter but a series of grunts and snuffles emerging from behind them. Her eyes shine bright between her fingers for the minute or so it takes for her to regain her composure, even if her voice is still a touch strangled when she finally lets her hands fall and asks, "Did you just call my breasts leftie and rightie?"

 "Well, I don't know what you call them, do I?"

 "I don't, Jaime," she grins, her nose twitching. "They're just breasts."

 "'Just breasts'? And really? You haven't named them?" Jaime lets loose a slow, deliberate smile. "Can I?"

 Brienne stands and stares down at him, far from unhappy but clearly utterly perplexed. "Maybe you can help me fold some laundry instead."

 "I'm not sure, Brienne," he says, watching her move to the drier nearest the door and opening it. "That doesn't sound like nearly so much fun."

 "I think I know what you're doing, Jaime," she tells him, pulling two corners of a voluminous cotton out the drier and holding them out in his direction. "But you don't have to. Yesterday...," she blushes and waves the sheet at him, "...yesterday was enough."

 "I know, I know! 'We aren't that kind'," Jaime moans, standing with as much reluctance as he can muster and accepting the offered material. "And you might be right," he grudgingly admits, "but if you think I won't spare Myranda and Poppy a thought or two from time to time, you must be out of your mind."

 She gawps at him. It isn't pretty, and he doesn't care.  "Had you already named them, Jaime?"

 "No," he says, quite truthfully. "They were first two that popped into my head. I like them. Myranda and Poppy," he says, more slowly, considering them. "Yes. Those are their names. Obviously."

 "Are they now? May I be so bold as to ask which is which?" Brienne brings her corners of the sheet together and Jaime does the same, only to find himself twisting it when he has to make an effort not to address his reply to the area south of her neck. "Other way, Jaime."

 He untangles the warm cotton. "Honestly, Brienne, it's quite clear. I've met Poppy. She's outgoing. Likes to meet people."

 "Oh," Brienne says, stepping in and taking the sheet from him. "And what of Myranda?

 She shakes the newly-formed folds and Jaime takes the hint, grabbing the hanging corners. "She's the shy one. Kind of mysterious."

 "Mysterious Myranda." A large eyebrow rises sharply. “Jaime, have you just named my left breast after the assistant of a cheap stage magician?”

 “Don't you listen to her!” Jaime barks at Brienne’s shirt, then looking at her bewildered face unapologetically. “No, I have not. She has far more class than that, and probably doesn’t wear that many sequins. I'm guessing. Do feel free to correct me, if I'm wrong.”

 Brienne takes the sheet from him, and finishes folding it herself, smoothing it against her stomach. She places it on the bench and pulls more cotton from the dryer. “If this is your idea of flirting, Jaime –“

 Jaime steps closer to her and snatches the proffered ends away. “I could charm the birds from the trees!”

 "I'm sure you could," Brienne tells him, shaking out the sheet and waiting for him to do the same at his end, suddenly unmoving in front of him. "Tell me, Jaime, are you going to name their breasts as well?"

 "I shouldn't think so," he says, meeting her look, one that speaks eloquently enough of his apparent hopelessness, with a grin. "What? So? I could be a touch rusty. It has been a while since I've flirted with any kind of actual," he pauses as he tries to find the right word, _"intent."_

 "A while?"

 "A long time." He can see both Brienne's curiosity, and the fact that she is trying not to laugh at what might be judged as his recent flirting ineptitude as they step in and out, nearer and nearer in the most peculiar sort of dance, until the second sheet is done and placed atop its companion. "Okay, lambikins. A _very_ long time."

 Brienne pulls the last linens out of the dryer at the end and steps over the washer opposite, opening the lid and throwing damp clothes within into a lurid green laundry basket. Her humour seems to fizzle, the dull thud of her tipping the heap into the dryer for its turn matching the more serious cast her features settle into. Jaime can guess what she is thinking about, if not the manner of it. He watches her fish out a small coin from a plastic bank bag next to her book and turn the machine on again. She stares in through the yellow-framed door as if the truth can be found there for while, before turning back to him. "I'm sorry. I can't work out...I can't work out how it even _worked_ , Jaime. Apart from the balconies. Those make sense. Everything else? I'm still not sure I want to know."

 "It's quite simple, Brienne. I saw what I wanted to see. And with hindsight, I pretty much did what I was told, when I was told to, even if I didn't believe it at the time." Once again, as his truth spills out, Brienne's mood lifts, and if it isn't quite what he'd expect, he can, perhaps, understand why she would seek to find the absurdity in all of it. Her hand rises, though it is only when she twists it in front of her that he sees what she's up to. "Brienne, are you doing what I think you're doing?"

 "You were under her thumb, weren't you? I can't imagine it. You don't seem the type." She lowers her eyeline to the level of her thumb, and peers at him. If there is moment of anger in Jaime at her laughing at him, it is gone when he notices she isn't at all. Her hand falls away, and any amusement in her is muted as she simply says, "I just wanted to see what it was like."

 "Funny," he says, moving closer, until they are almost nose to nose, almost daring her to laugh again as a last, bitter truth falls from his lips. One it took him too long to learn. "I loved her, Brienne. Or I thought I did. Though it kind of turned out that I loved the woman I was carrying in my head, not the woman herself."

 Brienne's gaze is serious now, steady and unwavering. "That, I could never laugh at," she says quietly, only to surprise him again as she asks, "Was it the same for her, do you think?"

 That catches him completely off-guard, and Jaime turns away, reaching out a steadying hand to warm, yellow painted metal. He drums his fingers there as he mulls over Brienne's question, though it is pointless. If he can only think better of her for considering Cersei's feelings, he knows far better. So he faces Brienne once more, and admits this final flaw, this weakness in himself. "No. She knew me all too well." If he sounds bitter, that's probably because he still is. But then, he's never been one to look away from pain, having been a symbol of that in others for a time, even if Brienne Tarth is proving to have a particular knack of boiling his more meandering excuses for his own failures down into the sparest of appropriate phrases.

 He doesn't even think she knows she's doing it as she does it again. "I'll never get it, Jaime. You with her, I mean." She picks up a pillowcase and folds it against her shirt, deft flicks of her hands making it neat while her jaw works in thought. "But I do believe you loved her, and it must've hurt you in the end," she says, not looking at him, running her palm over folded cotton repeatedly. She drops it on top of her red book, and then she meets his gaze. "It _must_ have."

 She sounds insistent, and if she doesn't say 'to leave you like this', or anything like it, the words hang heavy in between them, unspoken in the suddenly stifling air. "Please, spare me your pity, Brienne. It's bad enough you trying to understand the whole, twisted situation in the first place. You don't have pretend to know how I felt when it was done."

 For a moment, Brienne seems taken aback, some measure of shock to be seen in the dropping of her lower lip, but then she shakes her head. "I don't understand all of it. How could I? But, Jaime, what makes you think I've never been in love?"

 If her voice trails away at the last, Jaime barely notes it, the fact that she has loved, that she might still be in love _now_ , striking him hard, almost physically. "You have?"

 "Yes," Brienne whispers. "I was, once." That 'once' is enough to see Jaime blowing out a slow breath as he feels a relief he hadn't thought he needed, and he laughs softly at it. "What?" Brienne, asks bluntly, perhaps thinking that his laughter was aimed at her, which couldn't be further from the truth.

 "I know it's not Hyle, the idiot jellyfish donkey man, Brienne," Jaime says, that relief within welling up into the happiest of smiles. "So come on. I've shared. It's your turn. Spill."

 She claps her hands over her face, though she is the one now laughing. "No, it's too _embarrassing!"_

 Jaime leans down to grab another pillowcase from beside her and peels one of Brienne's hands away from her face, folding her fingers around it. It seems to be one of her chosen distractions. He doesn't step away. "More embarrassing than fucking your own sister for years, in the wholly mistaken belief that she was your one and only?" he quietly offers.  He can see Brienne's internal scramble for any reason she can scrape up to say yes, but as he is aware that this is a fight she can't win, he drags the orange chair over a touch and sits, crossing his legs in the fashion of the kind of damned evil suits his father sometimes employs to enact his more brutal 'business cost-cutting strategies'. "I didn't think so," he says, pretending to neaten his jeans with a few swipes of his palms. "I can't wait. Go on."

 Brienne absently folds the pillowcase as she stares up at the ceiling, which Jaime is fast coming to see is her first go-to when she is thinking of something embarrassing in conversation. “My best friend,” she eventually tells him, only for her features to screw up into a fully-fledged wince when she adds, “My _boss.”_

 “No!” Jaime breathes, as if scandalized, only to reach forward to prod at her arm. “Now who's busy breaking into the Young Adult section?”

 “Shut up, you!” Brienne laughs again, more at herself than at anything else, it would seem, as she bats Jaime’s hand away. She folds another two pillowcases before she can bear to speak again. Having dropped the second onto the small pile on the bench, she turns to face Jaime, and if he can feel his grin burning with something close to glee, hers is much more self-deprecating. She folds her arms across her chest. “Look, after teacher training, I searched for ages for a position. My face didn't really fit anywhere, and my college placement wasn't exactly a shining success. With hindsight, I just think Ren was desperate to find anyone who'd work there. He'd dragged the school out of direct regional control, but it still wasn't well regarded by any means. So, he took me on, and helped me as I settled in.”

 “Was it that difficult for you?”

 “Well, the students knew I was new to the job. Sometimes, teenagers can be like sharks smelling blood in the water, and I'm not exactly normal anyway, so in some of my classes I might as well have had a target painted on me. But Ren was great. He gave me some unconventional pep talks, and free rein in handing out detentions, even though they affect statistics.” There is such a thick vein of remembered gratefulness in her voice that Jaime wonders if this simple kindness had been enough to win her affection. If that had been the case, he doesn’t want think just how lonely she had been before. “Within a few weeks, I stopped being the 'ugly freak', to choose one of the better names I was given, and started being the 'jailer'. A while longer and even that was gone, barring the occasional flare-up. Now I'm just Ms Tarth.”

  _"Ms_ Tarth?”

 “Yes, not Miss,” Brienne shrugs. “Didn't need the questions.”

 “You don't mind that I've been calling –“

 “No,” Brienne confirms. “Not unless you're planning to attend my school to gain a S-Level in history.”

 “I'm not.” Jaime stretches out his legs until his feet are by the side of hers. “After a certain event, let’s just say I was scrubbed from the registers of my school immediately. And retroactively. It's like I was never there. I spent the three years between that and Harrenhal just getting strong,” he says, lifting his right arm and wiggling his fingers, “for all the good that did me, when I got there. So I ended up finishing my basic education in prison. You'll be pleased to hear that I passed history with distinction, though I've always suspected that the examiner may have thought me one of those precocious eight-year olds you see on the news, given that I was writing with my left hand, at the time.”

 It is no surprise that Brienne looks as if she wants to ask a thousand questions about the prison schooling system, but Jaime has a more pertinent one to ask, from his current standpoint.  “This Ren. You're in love with him?"

 "Yes...and _no_." That 'no' is definite, and a sharp tension Jaime hadn't been aware he'd rapidly adopted eases in his gut. Brienne bumps the side of her plimsoll against the front of the bench, sighing down at it. "It didn't take long for me to work out that he was the type of man for whom even _I_ would always be too womanly." She glances at him, giving the tiniest of shrugs. "It hurt at first, but I got over it. And now...well, now I love him as you would an annoying brother. If you can imagine such a thing."

 "I think I could, at a stretch."

 She straightens up from her slouch and stares wryly down at him for a moment. "I thought you might be able to. Renly's a good man, Jaime." She turns and dives back into the godsforsaken dryer. "And besides, without him," she says, her voice echoing from within the machine and her legs pleasingly long in Jaime's line of sight, "I wouldn't know the difference between 'distinguished stubble' and 'lazy hot guy on holiday stubble'. Which I do, by the way."

 "So I _am_ pretty?"

 There's a frustrated groan from inside the dryer, and yet more sheets start to emerge with Brienne. She drops the tails of most of them, looking decidedly and suddenly grouchy as she holds one out to him. "Don't ask me for validation about _that_ ," she grumbles. "I just figured you'd seen yourself enough."

 "There's no need for getting tetchy, because I'm pretty," Jaime says, standing, pushing back the chair to make some space again, and taking the sheet from her. "Remember? How I'm pretty? Even hot? You just said it, Brienne. Right then."

 A number of emotions flicker across her face, not one of which Jaime can pin down, and she settles for a tired sigh and soft remonstration. "And you accused me of hiding. Fold, Jaime."

 He does, their movements now more fluid, even as he snaps out a sharp, "What?"

 If he is instantly set on edge, Brienne remains far less so. "Yesterday morning. When we were swimming." They hand off the sheet and fold it again. "You said I 'hide in plain sight'. And I do." Another fold is made and now they are standing yet closer. "I admitted it then, and I admit it now." One last manoeuvre sees them almost touching. Brienne neatens their work and then smiles at him. "But what is this, Jaime," she says, gently bobbing the clean linen against his forehead, before dropping it with the others, "if not _your_ mask?"

 "That's not true," Jaime lies. It is, it undoubtedly is, but the course of the conversation is changing fast, and she is swiftly starting to cut too close to the bone.

 "Isn't it? Jaime, you've told me about your friends. You have so many of them, a few of them quite close. And yet you waited until you were on another _continent_ to spill your secrets to woman who, under normal circumstances, you would have no time for, at best." Jaime wants to deny her bold assumption that, back in Westeros, he'd ignore or even berate her, but he simply doesn't know if that's the case. What he does know is that he doesn't like being seen through, as if made of glass, but Brienne continues before he can stop her, speaking plainly and without ire. "I don't understand why you did, but I do know we both wear masks. It might be one of the few things we have in common. It could be that I got the rough end of that deal, though. On the surface of things, at least."

 "What _exactly_ are you trying to say, Brienne?"

 She remains almost inflexibly calm, whilst Jaime begins to rankle inside. "Maybe it's why you talked to me. Maybe not," she says. "But there's another thing I can guess at."

 "Oh, is there? Do let on, won't you?"

 He is biting his words out now, and when Brienne looks at him with something like pity, it sets him to seething. "It's wasn't your sister that stopped you from moving on, Jaime. It was _you_."

 That _is_ the truth and he knows it, though Jaime has never even dared to allow himself to consciously think it. That Brienne has seen it so soon, that she has said it at all, hits like the blow of a warhammer, and Jaime simply has to turn away from her. He stalks along to the rickety shelf, with its gaudy collection of detergent bottles. Grasping for a moment empty of thought, he lifts one, all faded pink plastic and torn labels, one that he can see is pretty much done, and drops it, with some shadow of venom, into the wastebasket squeezed in between the last washing machine and the wall, at his side. It looks pathetic amongst the dustballs and tissues and paper cups in there. A match for him, he thinks, as he feels no less so, though he will be damned if he'll admit it. He looks back over his shoulder at Brienne. "Is that so?"

 "Yes, Jaime it is." If she can see his anger at himself, and it is at himself, at his weakness and his confusion at it having been so readily found out, Jaime can't tell. Brienne is just standing there, again an immovable object, but one lacking the rage that had made her shiver as he drew near in the warm sea, when she first sought to find out who he really was. "You see, I couldn't work it out at first," she says, lifting her hand, her fingers grasping as if for something ephemeral in the air, "It made absolutely no sense to me. Look at yourself, Jaime!" For just that moment, she sounds desperate for him to see what she must be aware he already does, but then she turns her head away, dropping it as she softly adds, "You could be with almost anybody in the world if you wanted to, but even after years, you just...haven't."

 "And being the sage, wise and hugely experienced one in this area, who's known me for a matter of days, you've fathomed it, have you?" he asks, pacing back and placing himself squarely in front of her, furiously unwilling to be seen any more. "Then please, Brienne, _do_ enlighten me. I'm all agog at your brilliance."

 That hits home, and Brienne scowls at him, though she holds her voice in check. "Jaime, I hide in plain sight because I know what I am. I know what other people see. I have to fight hard for them to know who I am, to gain any respect."

 "Am I supposed to be bleeding out sorrow for you about that?"

 "No. I wouldn't want you to."

 "Good. I'm _not_. So?"

 "So you hide too, Jaime!” That comes in close to a shout, but again Brienne reins herself in, her eyes shutting when she drops her hand in between them, letting it fall from in front of Jaime’s face and back to her side. “Behind this. Behind what you did.” Then her gaze traps his. “And for all of these years, I think you've wanted someone to see past it. Someone to see _you.”_

She _can_ see him; too, too well, and if Jaime feels shockingly stripped bare in front of her right now, it is also clear that he too can cut right to the heart of her, without a second thought. "Shame it had to be you."

 For just the barest moment, she looks like a kicked puppy, all base hurt and incomprehension, but then she appears to wipe it away, a cool indifference taking its place, only betrayed by the twitching of her jaw. "I understand," she grinds out, too politely through clenched teeth, leaning down to pick up the few sheets they'd managed to wrangle into some sort of shape so far, and stepping over to a built-in cupboard in the corner. She keeps her back firmly turned to him as she stows the linens away, and stubbornly stands there in silence after that, needlessly tidying those already there, though they are plainly already piled very neatly.

 "Brienne, I didn't mean -"

 "You _did_ mean it," she spits, her head turning sharply to one side, though not so far as to look directly at him. "I may not be your _mirror_ , Jaime, but I know when you're lying. You do it a lot less than I thought you would. I stay quiet if I have to, but you say what people expect you to. What you just said wasn't a lie."

 "Maybe I did mean it. But if you would just get down from your sodding high horse for a minute," he says, pacing over and leaning against the pink plaster on the side of the cupboard, "then perhaps I could tell you where you've wandered off down the wrong path." If he finds any humour in saying so when he has been the most riled one in this conversation thus far, it is too dark, and he pushes it aside. Whatever it is, this thing, this 'friendship' with Brienne, no matter how short-lived it is to be, he is tired of years of defending himself for thoughts and intentions he never had in the first place.

 The moment he faces her, Brienne simply stares into the cupboard, as if into an abyss. She doesn't even pretend to be teasing folds of cotton into place anymore, simply clasping the edge of the second shelf down, her knuckles white. "I have, have I?"

 The wounded air she is quickly starting to wind about herself grates on Jaime. "Don't pretend you're perfect, Brienne. You're not.”

 “Like I need reminding?” There is anger in her then, and Jaime would accept that, were it not for his own frustration at her obvious conclusion that it is all about how she looks.

 It may be understandable, but today, it is a leap beyond the truth. “See? _Wrong.”_ Jaime grinds words out through his teeth. “In case you hadn't noticed, Brienne, I have no objection to any of _this_ ,” he says, flicking a hand around in the space between them, not quite touching her. “Quite the opposite. That's in your head, not mine, and I'm not going to fucking pity you for it. But I won't have you thinking that's why I said –“

 “'Shame it had to be you'?” Even if she whispers it, it is still hard with an underlying fury, one he suspects is hiding a rawness inside. She frowns into the cupboard, before looking at him again. “Tell me then, Jaime. Why?”

 Jaime bangs the back of his head against the corner of the wall and groans. “Stop making up your mind before I've spoken, will you?”

 “I'm not!”

 “You are!” Jaime bats right back. “It's a habit of yours, and it's bloody irritating.” They stare at each other doggedly for a few seconds, neither giving an inch until Jaime remembers he hasn’t yet explained. “If you must know,” he finally mutters, “I said it because you see me too well.” He avoids her gaze then, instead taking in the uninspiring view of the tumble dryers from a new angle, watching the one in the middle slowing to a stop. “It may have been what I wanted, but –“

 “Be careful what you wish for?”

 He glances at Brienne, and finds her anger dissipated, or perhaps bundled away inside again. “I'm just not used to it,” he says and, unwilling to square up to whatever she’s going to throw at him next, distracts himself by brushing a few stray paint flakes from his shirt. But nothing comes. There is only silence.

 It is then that realization hits Jaime like a wall of ice water. He is waiting to be told his worth. That it is none. Waiting for words made of spite, designed to belittle, some of which he’ll repay in kind, only to retract them later in desperation. But they aren’t coming. They won’t. It is all well and good, him being defensive, but if there is nothing to defend against, there's no reason to do it. Brienne had something to say, and she said it, with no intention of causing him any hurt in the process. And it was merely the fact that she views him with some level of trust that meant she could speak so freely to him anyway.

 Jaime can't quite bring himself to apologize out loud, not just yet, so he sends her a look he hopes will suffice, in lieu of one that will no doubt fall out of him at some inappropriate point or other. Brienne's cheeks puff out, air hissing out of her, but then her whole frame relaxes. "Like I said, Jaime," she says softly, "I'll never understand all of it."

 They stand there, regarding each other with open, yet cautious, curiosity; two people who are in some ways the same, and in others very different. Each carrying their own damage with them. Each changed by it, made what they are, though if it is for the better or worse in either of them will always be impossible to say. After a while, Jaime shifts against the wall, unwilling to dwell too much on his own past, and equally unwilling to try and fathom what is going on Brienne's head. It seems to him that this tiny, stuffy laundry room has seen quite enough truth for today, so he reaches out and taps her hand. "Oh, come on, Brienne. Curse me. Kiss me. Call me a liar. Again." For a moment, he steps in close and smiles up at her. "Say what you like. You have more ammo on me than anyone else in the world!" Then he leans back against his corner, patting twice at his chest. "I'm right here. I can take it. Go on. Have at it."

 Brienne takes another deep breath, her eyes closed as she rolls her head from side to side, as if working out a crick in her neck. But then she stands tall, and peers down at him. "Do they charge you extra at the airport, for all of your excess baggage?"

 "Oh, that's good," Jaime says, laughing softly as the tension between them lifts. "Just how long have you been sitting on that one?"

 She pretends to think on the matter, he is certain of it, only to answer sincerely, if with mild embarrassment, "Since about an hour after you told me everything, on the beach?"

 His laughter grows, alongside his sense of relief that at least he hasn't blown any chance at this peculiar friendship they've been building. "Do you always quip that way? You know, on the car drive home? That sort of thing?"

 "Yes, Jaime. Like I said, I'm not good at it." Good humour seems to overtake her then, a grin Jaime can only describe as damned mischievous struggling to be contained as she adds, "There was another one about the price of first-class tickets...champagne...Dysfunction Junction, but it was very long, and I'd only fluff it."

 "I think you've said enough to make your point, lambikins," he says, loosely kicking out to tap the side of his shoe against hers in an admonition that is neither warranted nor meant. "You're not wrong," he says as, true to form, Brienne returns the favour. "It's enough to make me wonder why you haven't run for the hills."

 "I'm not sure," she tells him, her gaze unwavering and again, utterly honest. "I should have. Apart from the fact that I'm working here, of course." She sidles out of the gap between Jaime and the washing machine behind her and heads to the nearest dryer.

 "So you _have_ been avoiding me?" he asks dryly, as she begins to untangle the sheets she'd left spilling out of it.

 "Not really. I just needed to think." She sets them back down and turns to him. "Jaime, friendship with you is easy, surprising as it is. Annoying, but easy. Anything else...that's a lot to consider."

 "Was I ringing the excess baggage alarm?"

 "With flashing lights." Her head tilts sharply, suddenly, and she points at his face. "What's that?" She taps at her own face, to refine the query.

 "This? I paid my second visit to Grey today," Jaime says, scrubbing his fingers through his stubble. He works them over the corner of his jaw, which does feel sore, he has to admit. "Is it bruised?"

 "A little. He's good, isn't he?"

 "I gave as good as I got!" Jaime protests, if with no weight in the slightest, taking a couple of steps nearer to her.

 "I don't mean that, Jaime," Brienne says. "I mean that he really knows about working around old injuries."

 "He does," Jaime agrees. In the couple of hours he's spent with him, Grey has been nothing but solicitous, even when they were trying to knock seven bells out of each other, but in truth, the younger man was more fascinated by comparing the strength and movement in Jaime's arms. As a result, Jaime has spent most of his time there lifting weights and using varied and unusual machines. "He has a lot of adapted equipment in there, doesn't he?"

 "Yes. He specialises in working with those with injury or illness, Jaime. He's why Lennart moved here, in the first place. When he was first diagnosed, he came over to see Grey, and never left. Except for when dad," she pauses, a transient frown twisting her mouth, "well, you know." She picks up the corners of the sheets once more, but just fiddles with them for a moment before letting them go again. She turns from the dryer to him, her grief vanished from Jaime's sight almost as soon as it had arrived, though he knows it has just been tucked away inside her. Instead, she now looks at him with marked interest, and changes the subject. "Had you really never heard of Grey? I thought you might have done."

 "No, but then he is twelve years old," Jaime says, shaking his arm out to one side. "A little late for my recovery."

 "Not quite twelve, Jaime," Brienne chides. "Grey's a little younger than me, though not by much. The way I understand it, he studied in the martial arts from early childhood, and mastered them all by the age of twenty. He was about to go into the cages when a friend of his was badly injured -"

 "The cages?"

 Brienne blinks repeatedly, her train of thought obviously derailed by his ignorance of something she knows well. "The Eastern Cage Fighting Federation?"

 "I think I've heard of it," Jaime says, racking his brain and coming up empty, except for a couple of half-remembered ads from his youth, involving loud rock music, fireworks and a great deal of glitter. "Never seen it."

 "Oh," Brienne breathes, breaking out into a smile like sunshine. "That explains it!"

 "Explains what?" he asks, though he can only smile back as he does so.

 "Barsena!" she laughs, more a gentle huffing behind a bitten lip than anything else. "She said you weren't very scared of her. I'm afraid she was quite put out about it."

 "Barsena? Brienne, Barsena is a local restaurant owner with an alarming fondness for brightly coloured childrens' medical tape."

 One long pace sees Brienne standing right in front of him, trying to keep a straight face and speak matter of factly. "A local restaurant owner who was the undefeated female ECFF champion for five straight years. Until she got badly injured."

 "Get the fuck out!" Jaime laughs, quite glad now that he hadn't stood up to Barsena's overly fussy ministrations as strongly as he might have been inclined to.

 "It's true, Jaime," Brienne says, still laughing, if now with him, which Jaime rather prefers. "Harghaz could hold his own as well, back in the day."

 "Waiting for tax cuts Harghaz? Boar stew Harghaz? _Harghaz_ Harghaz?"

 "Yes!" Brienne nods fiercely. "He's the one who brought Barsena here after she was injured, so that Grey could help her along. They didn't marry until a couple of years later." She stares at him then, as if confused. "Jaime, didn't you research this place at all, before you came?"

 "No," Jaime admits, without a care, though he leaves out the why of it. He's had enough of his own past, for one day, and it isn't as if Brienne doesn't already know what drove him here in the first place. "I didn't even know it was called Ghirash until Kharfan told me. Which I will maintain is a truly hideous name until my dying breath, by the way."

 "I wouldn't say that too loudly, when you're out and about, if I were you," Brienne warns him, though it feels to be given in jest as she steps back to the bench. "You have about a one in five chance of being hit very hard, if someone takes it the wrong way."

 "Grey's services are that popular?"

 "Yes," Brienne tells him, whilst she efficiently separates vast tangles of cotton from the dryer, sheets piled to the left and pillowcases to the right. "He and Missy did consider a move to Meereen, once they could afford it, but the town elders were nearly hanging onto their ankles to stop them from leaving. I think they've always felt happier here than in the city, anyway, so they decided to make their home here permanently."

 “Then I am honoured. He's asked me back tomorrow. Want to come along?”

 “What time?”

 “Before lunch.”

 "It's only next door, I guess," Brienne says, seeming doubtful for a moment, but then letting it go. "I'll speak to Lennart. See what I can do." One last time, she picks up the corners of a sheet, holding them out to him. "So, Jaime, seeing as you like to be ordered around?"

 "I do not." Jaime theatrically plucks the cotton from her fingers and moves away. They make the first fold, this time around. "I'm only doing it because I'm your 'friend'," he says, stepping in to hand it over. "And because I have the utmost respect for Poppy," he adds, as they stand mere inches apart.

 "I'm sure she's very pleased about that," Brienne mutters, her tone edging towards the distinctly tart, even if Jaime would swear he can see her willing herself to remain straight-faced as they move apart again.

 "So she should be." Jaime folds the sheet again and pretends to dab his eyes with it, clasping his freed hand to his chest as if in despair. "But alas! Myranda, I never knew you. And it seems I never will."

 Brienne ignores the chuckling that then proceeds to escape him, not that he tries very hard to keep it quiet. “Quite right too,’ she says, a little too primly, carefully clasping her own sheet corners in one hand and sweeping her free arm low to pick up one of the newly found cases from the bench. Less than a second passes before it lands squarely on Jaime's head, slipping off with desperate slowness. He makes sure to catch it in the sheet, and then fishes it out, staring down at it speculatively. "What?" Brienne asks.

 Jaime whips the case out into the air behind him, grinning directly at her even as he does so. It doesn't exactly crack, so much as flail, but then he figures you can't have everything. "I don’t know about you, Brienne, but I feel a pillowcase fight coming on."

 "Whoever heard of a pillowcase fight?"

 "No-one. So it'd be a first. And look at my proposed weapon of choice," he says, holding it in the air between them and waving it for good measure. "Isn't it enticing?"

 Brienne sighs, presumably at his bout of utter childishness, only to drop into a short period of internal debate. In the end, she gives a short nod, and decides to play along. "Pillowcases only. I don’t want to have to wash the sheets again."

 "Agreed,” Jaime says, and promptly throws his end of the sheet towards the bench. He turns, bolts out into the courtyard and crouches low, behind the nearest flowerbed, winding his case into a rope, hoping to get the drop on her when she comes out. Yet if he anticipates a swift, all-out assault, precisely the opposite occurs. From inside the tiny laundry room he hears some terrible, off-key whistling, at least an order of magnitude worse than Brienne's humming, as Jaime has ever heard it. It's a clear play, and he doesn't move, biding his time whilst she delays her entrance into the field of battle. She makes him wait yet longer, and his knees are starting to complain at his rather too hunched position when she finally decides to grace him with her presence. However, just a glimpse of her through the pretty foliage is even enough to drive Jaime back up to his feet with a sharp cry of protest, his excellent tactics forgotten. "What’s that?"

 Brienne seems enormously pleased with herself, glancing down at the pile of what must be every single sodding pillowcase she could find in the laundry room, all piled neatly under her left arm, as if they had just magically appeared there. “I thought the only rule was 'pillowcases only'. I don’t remember there being one stating how many we could have,” Brienne says, her tone mild, but the smile on her heat-reddened face growing grimly implacable as she folds the uppermost slip of cotton on top of the others, each movement ending with a hefty, yet dull thump of her right palm.

 “I’m not sure that’s entirely fair, Miss Tarth.”

 The first wedge of tightly bundled pillowcase is hefted in a large palm, as if being weighed before launch, and if Brienne tries to adopt a look of sympathy for her quarry, she fails. “You snooze, you lose, Lannister," she says, and takes aim.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's chapter will be uploaded at approximately 21.00 GMT.


	9. Ten Days - Day Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own it not.
> 
> Time: 21.00 GMT

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY NINE**

 

 They are seen to a table for four, right in the centre of what is ostensibly the 'dining' section of this establishment, by a soberly dressed and very polite woman of middling years, who assures them that a member of the waiting staff will be with them shortly. Missandei and Grey sit across from each other easily enough, familiar with this place as they seem to be, and Jaime takes the space on the padded bench seat next to Grey. It wins him a soft laugh from the quietly charismatic and thoroughly skilled fighter, who knows very well that Jaime only does so to be able to still see the slight shade of purple he had managed to inflict upon one dark cheek earlier today.

 "Look all you please," Grey says, "but I can see your shoulder still pains you. Not all of it my doing."

 "It isn't that bad," Jaime mutters, whilst he watches Missandei and Grey reach out across the table almost as one, their hands clasping with real affection in the low light of this wood-panelled room.

 Jaime rolls his arm slightly uncomfortably, trying to shake out the soreness of a stolen hour in the famed Grey Worm's domain earlier today, and Missandei notices it, commenting on the cause. "Brienne is extremely athletic and quite skilled, Jaime."

 "My shoulder agrees," he says, "though as you live with Grey, I do find myself wondering quite why you needed her to demonstrate that throw so many times. With me as her 'assailant'."

 "Self-defence is an incredibly useful tool for any woman, Jaime Lannister," she replies, without a flicker of anything other than complete seriousness at her own reasoning. "It is best observed often."

 Jaime smiles at her. If he and Grey have quickly settled into a quiet friendship, things with Missandei are more precarious for obvious reasons; yet he finds the subtleties in her character genuinely interesting. "I have a feeling you need no instruction," Jaime offers mildly. "In fact, I would go so far as to guess that you could eviscerate a man standing six feet away, if you really needed to."

 "I have no need of anyone else's innards," she says, the slightest tremor of a grin noticeable for the barest moment as she deliberately lets her gaze skate across the table top between them. "Perhaps five feet."

 Jaime chuckles and is about to ask Grey if they should start removing the sharper cutlery, when Tyrion, who for reasons known only to himself has moved to an empty table, starts to bring over another chair. Jaime suspects that he is purposely managing to produce an unearthly scraping sound from it, and turns to him. "What are you _doing_ , Tyrion?"

 At his moderately irritated question, Tyrion just continues to drag it noisily over from an empty nearby table with a shrug. "I wanted to sit at the head of the table."

 "You hate being at the head of any table," Jaime mutters, at the clear untruth. "There've been a number of times where you've said you only ever want to be at the head of a table 'next to a sea of wine, garnished heavily with women and song'."

 "True, but you'd be amazed what they can arrange here, so long as it's between consenting adults, with a fair exchange of coin." He pulls himself up into his seat next to Jaime, only to lean dangerously out to one side for a moment. But then he is upright again, and he is laughing. "And that might or might not have been a lie, but it doesn't matter. She's here," he says, though less to Jaime than their companions.

 Jaime twists and looks toward the entrance, to see the unmistakable form of Brienne, bending down so she can be held in a genuinely warm embrace by the woman who had greeted them so recently. He watches as they talk. "What's this, brother?"

 "Don't blame me, Jaime!" Tyrion protests. "This was Oberyn's idea. He sort of insisted. You know, after he found you both writhing under a pile of laundry in the courtyard."

 "There was no writhing. It was a pillowcase fight.”

 If it sounds weak enough to Jaime's ears, his brother has to drive it home. "That's not what he said, and I do believe that our Mr Martell is an expert in these matters. Besides, I think you know that if I asked a five-year-old what a pillowcase fight was, they'd tell me it was _made up."_ In the face of Tyrion's expanding glee, Jaime glances desperately at Missandei and Grey for support, only to realize in short order that he won't be getting any. Neither will look at him; Grey is slowly shaking his head, and even Missandei's iron composure is cracking, her lips twitching as she grasps her husband's hand ever more tightly. Jaime swats at the side of Tyrion's head and turns in his seat, resting his elbow on the back of it whilst Brienne and the hostess finish talking.

 The moment she turns to move into the dining area, she sees him in the group, and visibly sighs. She looks odd to his eyes, her hair tied back in a looser ponytail, dressed neither in her dreadful uniform or any kind of sportswear, but in a normal pair of jeans and a grey, form-fitting t-shirt, yet he can see no reason for the hilarity his brother is trying to keep in check, nor for the daftly affectionate faces the couple at his side are suddenly bearing.

 "What's so funny now?" he asks as Brienne is led over to the table, but this only seems to inflame Tyrion's amusement.

 "Just look at what you're both wearing, brother!" Jaime shifts his ankle and stares down around the edge of the table, trying not to think of Brienne's heel kicking out as he does so. He doesn't see much in the way of a similarity between his red lace-up ankle boots and the white plimsolls in which he is sure Brienne will be shod. So what if both pairs of shoes are made of canvas? And everybody at this table is in jeans, so that can't be the problem. It is only when he straightens up and sees Brienne before him, having been quietly led over, that he might have to give his brother some credit, though he'll never admit it.

 Brienne already seems to have seen the issue. If their shirts are grey and white, they are so closely styled as to be twinned, the fine, vertical ribbing of their separately chosen items following the lines of their bodies neatly and the cut of the short sleeves and the v-necks shaped in almost precisely the same manner. Brienne doesn't choose to address it, sitting down in the empty seat across from Jaime with another low sigh, but he is definitely being niggled by Tyrion, who is descending into a stuttering sort of tired and happy huffing between them.

 "They're nothing alike," Jaime says, waving vaguely in the direction of Brienne, trying not to look at her chest and almost losing his voice entirely when he realizes that she might not even be wearing a bra at all tonight. She doesn't need one, he supposes, but it takes him a good ten seconds to gather up a challenging look for her. "What did you pay for that? Five dragons?"

 She initially sputters wordlessly in response, but settles into a warm glare. "Twenty-five. I buy ethically made clothing, Jaime."

 "Of _course_ you do. I guess  I must be extremely ethical, then. I paid a hundred and twenty for mine."

 Grey coughs repeatedly into his fist and Jaime doesn't miss Missandei gaping at him somewhat prettily, while Brienne simply looks at him as if he is an A-grade idiot. "Then they saw you coming. Who pays a hundred and twenty dragons for a t-shirt?"

 "Me," Jaime says unapologetically, as Tyrion fiddles with his phone. Brienne just shakes her head at Jaime and picks up the leather-bound menu, flipping it open.

 A short burst of the theme tune from the inexcusably tacky film franchise 'Dragon's Revenge' bursts from Missandei's phone, though Jaime would rather crawl on his belly over hot coals than admit that he recognizes it as being from the second movie. Missandei picks it up and opens a message. "I must apologize, but we have to go," she says.

 "Is it Lennart? Should I go back?" Brienne asks immediately, starting to rise to her feet, only to sit back down when a small hand touches her reassuringly.

 "He's fine," Missandei says. "And you haven't had a night off since you arrived, Brienne. We will check in on him later." Brienne has taken the bait, hook, line and sinker, and Jaime just glares at Tyrion, who rebuffs his accusatory look with the one of wide-eyed innocence he always employs when he is blatantly interfering, even when his victims know it.

 Missandei and Grey stand, the latter fishing out a business card and placing it neatly on the table next to Jaime. "As I said before, I would like to keep in contact. Your recovery from such an injury is impressive. You are good."

 Jaime picks up the card, fiddling with it as he grins at the martial artist. "I am. And though I don't have cause say it often, you're better."

 This unusual offer of praise is met by a soft smile of acknowledgement from Grey...and Brienne whispering, "Get a room," under her breath. Unfortunately, her timing is terrible and everybody else hears it. There is more laughter, particularly from Tyrion, who is promptly in stitches. Missandei giggles surprisingly girlishly and even Grey lets out a low chuckle. Only then does Brienne seem to cotton on to what is happening, her face glowing red as she gapes at her friends and Jaime's brother. "Guys..."

 "What?" Tyrion asks, only to start laughing again.

 Brienne's shoulders slump and she looks over at Missandei. "So what _are_ you having for dinner, Missy?"

 Dark curls bob towards Grey. "His pot roast," she says, then patting Brienne's arm one last time. "Have a good evening." Then, with a last small wave, she and her devoted husband are gone.

 As if in time, Brienne and Jaime both turn to glare at Tyrion. "Did you really think this would work, brother?"

 "Would you have come without us? No. And are you both here now? Yes. So I'd argue that it _did_ work," Tyrion says smugly, dropping from his chair. He shakes his phone. "I was going to wait until Missy sent me a mystery emergency message, but I don't think I'll even try to make any excuses now. Just enjoy yourselves, will you?" He leaves, clearly very pleased with himself, and Jaime shrugs at Brienne, who smiles back at him nervously.

 "So, get a room, huh?"

 Brienne rolls her eyes. "I didn't think anybody would _hear_ it." She peers across at Tyrion, who has made it to the exit. "I'm surprised he isn't staying."

 Jaime plucks the menu from her fingers and turns it around so he can read it. "Tyrion hates being the third wheel and, oddly enough, tends to stay sober and sleep the night before a flight. It's only after take-off that he likes to hit the bottle."

 "Is he a nervous flier, then?"

 "Not that he'll _admit,"_ Jaime smiles, as a pretty, curvy young woman in denim shorts and a white vest top comes over to serve them.

 She smiles brightly but tiredly at Brienne, who reaches up for her brown curls. "Pia, you have straw in your hair."

 "I know," she sighs, batting the much larger hand away. "Don't worry, Brienne. It's clipped into place for hygiene. They're trialling having us show some of the themes available for patrons who may want other services whilst they're here. I'm told the farmgirl next door look is very popular at the moment."

 "Oh," Brienne slowly nods in polite understanding, her barely abating blush back in full force. Jaime distracts her by asking her what she would recommend from the menu, and he quickly settles for the same as she chooses. Pia moves off to place their order, edging carefully around a group of businessmen who are already a touch raucous, for this time of the evening.

 "She seems friendly enough," Jaime says, more to break the silence threatening to settle between them than anything.

 "She is," Brienne agrees. "She looks tired though."

 "I thought the same," Jaime tells her, aware that they are both feeling exceptionally awkward. He leans in. "Brienne, I am happy to be here with you, but I don't know what I'm doing. Turns out that this," he huffs self-deprecatingly into his palm and lets it drop away, " _this_ is my first ever date. As such. And it appears to be happening in the only respectable room in a brothel."

 Brienne looks at him with a little more ease then. "If it helps, this is only my third. My first that wasn't predicated on a bet."

 "You slept with Hyle after _two_ dates?"

 Her foot kicks his, under the table. "He was trying very hard." If she is truly offended, she doesn't show it, just laughing softly at herself. "And I've already said I was stupid to believe him."

 "I wasn't thinking that," Jaime says. "I was thinking more along the lines that we should have done this a couple of nights ago."

 Brienne smiles shyly down at the table and says nothing.

 Jaime takes a couple of thin breadsticks from the glass in the middle of the table, waving one under her nose. As Brienne accepts it, Jaime believes he should make some attempt at small talk, which he loathes, though he is ever more fascinated by her. "So, I know you are a history teacher. I know you're from Tarth, but you don't live there. You are stubborn and sickeningly good, can throw a javelin and have a passing knowledge of plumbing, though not enough for old mariners to approve. What else do you want to tell me about yourself, Brienne?"

 She snaps off the end of her breadstick and pops it into her mouth, chewing slowly as she seems to weigh up her response. Then she swallows and looks at him. "I live outside of a place called Haystack Hall." At his blank shrug, she continues. "It's a small town in the Stormlands. It doesn’t have a hall, or if it did, nobody’s ever found it. I work at Shyra Errol Comprehensive School. It serves a large number of rural communities in the area. As well as teaching history, I _do_ run the swimming classes and teach field events." She smiles at him wryly. "I live nearby, in my own house. It isn’t very big, but has a good-sized garden, I suppose. I'm very ordinary, I'm afraid."

 Jaime doesn't think so, even if the sudden image of her tending to flowerpots is a bit pedestrian. "Do you like gardening?"

 "No!" she grins, all teeth and revulsion at the mere idea. "It's just lawn and a couple of old trees. I'm told they blossom beautifully in springtime, but I've only lived there for four years, so I wouldn't know."

 "I've never owned my own garden," Jaime says, "though the grounds of the family home might be called 'extensive' by some."

 Brienne snorts as Pia returns, bearing two heavily laden, mouth-wateringly scented platters. The work of leaving them lasts the span of her freely given smile, but as Jaime picks up his cutlery, Brienne points her shortened breadstick his way. "And that's all I know about you, Jaime."

 "I think you'll find you know more about me than anyone else living, Brienne," he tells her, cutting through the steak.

 "That might be so, Jaime, but I know almost nothing about you _now_."

 If he is momentarily shocked by that honest assessment, his thoughts grind to a dead stop as he tastes the food. It is nothing short of meltingly divine. He hardly hears himself let out a low moan of approval as he taps at his plate with his knife. "Sorcery, right?" he mumbles around the morsel. "That's how they do this?"

 Brienne nods enthusiastically. "It could be," she says. "So you like steak? That's good to know, I guess?"

 Jaime just dives into his meal. "Food first, lambikins. Then talk."

 Brienne nudges his foot again in what seems to be agreement, and what follows is perhaps a quarter of an hour of shared, unspoken bliss, only broken by Jaime occasionally whispering, "So good," to his plate and Brienne nodding in clear accord with that view. At one point, Pia returns with two small glasses of belatedly delivered red wine, which she places with only the quietest tip of the bases onto wood and an apologetic grin, before she scurries away again. Once done, even if neither plate is left empty, they both lean back, their hands resting over their full bellies, grinning at each other stupidly and contentedly. It is hard not to notice that the course of the meal has seen their legs become almost entwined, under the table.

 "I told you the steak here was good," she tells him, and Jaime knocks his knee against hers.

 "No need to be smug, Brienne," he says. "I thought that left the building with Tyrion."

 "It can't all have gone, Jaime," she offers lightly. "You're still here."

 He straightens up in his seat, stretching his arms out briefly and sending her a wink, which drives her eyes immediately and adorably elsewhere. "Funny," he says, pushing his plate slightly forward and leaning his elbows on the table. "So, what do you want to know about me, other than my insufferable smugness, my bad life choices and my extremely ethical fashion purchases?"

 "Apart from your swimming trunks. There's no way they weren't made in a sweatshop," Brienne frowns, a point with which he can't help but agree. Obviously, gravity is working overtime on her side of the table, as she doesn't yet even attempt to move closer to upright. It affords him the rare view of her from above, and it isn't lacking an unusual sort of charm as she chews on her lower lip, thinking about what to ask. In the end, she lolls her head lazily to one side, her gaze flickering back to his, and mirrors his own question. "What else do you want to tell me, Jaime?"

 He has no idea where to begin, so decides to start with the basics. "I have two apartments, one in Lannisport and another in King's Landing. I don't spend a lot of time in either. I travel a lot for work."

 "You _work?_ Doing what?"

 "I'll try to ignore your horror at the absurdity of my doing so at all, Miss Tarth," he sniffs. Brienne looks mildly sheepish as a result. "Didn't your research into me flag anything newer?"

 "Honestly, Jaime, after the first few revelations, I stopped looking. I didn't know how much more I wanted to see."

 "That's probably for the best," he says, smiling at her and rubbing his shin lightly against the side of one of her calves. "Otherwise, you'd probably have had me pinned as an arms dealer too."

 Her legs jerk against his and her head rises up sharply. "You're _not_ , are you?"

 "Not in the way you're thinking," he chuckles, tapping his fingers on the table for a solid minute or so. "Brienne, finding work was tough when I got out of prison." He shakes his wrist quickly, as if to scare off a persistent fly. "This wasn't close to mended, and it's hard enough for an unknown ex-con to get hired, and at that time, I was _infamous_. Even my father gave up his hopes of my being his successor. It just wasn't practical. So I spent a good few years knocking around in dead-end jobs." At Brienne's wide-eyed and obvious concern, he shakes his head. "It was never that bad for me, Brienne. My father couldn't have me working for him, but he's still 'disgustingly rich', remember? It's not like I was struggling on the breadline. But the work _was_ shit. I was a good bartender for a while, then a bad mechanic, and you don't even want to hear about my spell as a window cleaner." She clearly does, her features overtaken with curiosity, so he just explains, "Given my reputation, I never trusted whoever was at the foot of the ladder not to tip it over. It led to some very hastily and poorly cleaned windows."

 Air rushes out of Brienne in an amused hiss, though her eyes narrow. "I'm glad you're telling me all of this, Jaime, but it still isn't about you, in the here and now."

 "I'm getting there," he tells her, stopping for a moment as one of the oldest affections of his life threatens to steal over him. "The key is Tyrion," he says, with some warmth. "Once I was out of the picture, my father pinned his future hopes on Tyrion, though there has always been little love between them. My mother died shortly after giving birth to him." Jaime feels a leg moving against his now, as if in comfort, and he presses his own back in silent thanks. "Tyrion wanted none of it. So as soon as he came of age, he bolted, determined to make his own fortune. Father dragged him back into the fold a couple of times, but Tyrion is the cleverest person I've ever met. He was pretty young when he started to make a name for himself as a dealer in antiquities. He is still doing it now. Don't get me wrong, he can be utterly ruthless when the mood takes him, and he wasn't going to give me any slack, but he gave me one chance. I took it. And now I am his chosen expert in ancient weaponry."

 Brienne is as one brought back from the dead, the word 'antiquities' having seen her reach for the table and Jaime's own role seeing her hauling herself into a proper sitting position, her eyes bright. "The old stories," she whispers.

 "You didn't think it was just you, did you?" Jaime laughs. "We both love them too. And if I still work through my brother, he more often sends me out these days as a shockingly expensive consultant on things he isn't even selling. Between my practical knowledge and his capacious brain, we get to see some extraordinary things."

 "You did seem interested in Grey's weapons store. But I just thought -"

 "'Ex-con'?" Jaime guesses, with some edge. "Shame on you, Miss Tarth, for being so bloody judgmental."

 "It wasn't that, Jaime," she tries to reassure him, "I just...didn't know how to ask."

 Jaime believes her. "Stumbletongue," he smiles.

 "Not really," she says, wringing her hands lightly. "It was more like that thing...you know, when you're sure your tongue has grown so large you can't speak around it?"

 Jaime is tempted to point out that that sounds very much like the definition of stumbletongue, but passes on the opening. "Can't say as I do."

 "Of _course_ you don't," Brienne says, and she leans closer, her enthusiasm becoming obvious, overtaking any awkwardness in her. "So, old weaponry. What era do you prefer?" The question is laced with soft wonder.

 "I can deal with almost any timeframe, but I prefer pre-ballistic artefacts. I do like a catapult, though," Jaime adds, sure that Brienne is nearly bouncing in her seat, even if his eyes are telling him otherwise. "I once had a man want to buy an original trebuchet to celebrate the birth of his son. I had to tell him that there were only two old examples left in the world, and that even they could hardly be called complete, with so many parts having been replaced. He ended up buying the axle of one that had been found during a dig in a bog, up by the Neck."

 "Why would anyone want to buy a trebuchet after the birth of a child?"

 "Not a fucking clue, Brienne," Jaime admits, "but he was thrilled with it."

 "Was that the best thing you've ever seen?"

 "No, not by a country mile," he says, moving nearer himself now, the tabletop pressing hard into his ribs and his face mere inches from hers. "I did once see a pre-Fall breastplate that was as blue as your eyes. It had genuine battle damage." Brienne's eyes are wide and she seems beyond speech, instead silently mouthing the word 'really?' Jaime nods. "But even that isn't the best." He bites his lip. "Have you ever heard of the Highgarden Blade?"

 Brienne's hands fly to her mouth. _"No!"_ she whispers, only to drop them again. "I mean _yes_ , Jaime! How could I not? I've never been to the Reach Museum, though," she adds, full of wistfulness.

 "I wouldn't bother, Brienne. The stink of made-up chivalry is thick on that one."

 "Is it?"

 She looks devastated at the very thought, and Jaime laughs. "It's actually not that bad. I'm just saying so because Loras bloody Tyrell, the so-called 'Maester of Tourneys' there, once knocked me flat out on my arse in front of a horde of Sothroyan tourists, during a demonstration. I'm not bitter, but there were _thousands_ of them," he exaggerates.

 "Thousands?" Brienne smile is all teeth and animated freckles.

 He knocks his knee gently against the outside of her thigh. "Maybe fifty or so. Could've been a hundred." He narrows his eyes. "Could we skip over my martial woes and get back to the Blade?"

 Brienne nods happily. "Wasn't it missing for a few years? Is that where you came in?"

 "When it was returned, yes. It made our names in the field. The Tyrells engaged us when Baelish Insurance declined to even recompense them for the loss of takings when it was missing. The Blade's a big draw, after all. Petyr Baelish, who is a complete fucktoad, by the way, had always refused to accept that the sword was even gone in the first place. He never paid out when it was taken, and even claimed that when it was returned, it was a fake. He accused the Reach Committee of having the real thing squirreled away somewhere, all along."

 "Are 'fucktoads'," Brienne lends the term an inordinate amount of uncertain delicacy, "a thing, Jaime?"

 "I've met one, so on balance, I'd have to say yes." 

 Brienne purses her lips for a moment, only to sip a little of her wine, her elbow resting on the table. "Go on. Tell me about the Highgarden Blade, Jaime."

 Jaime is aware that he may be about to make a complete fool of himself, but he simply doesn't give a single damn, smiling without restraint. "It's the single most beautiful object I've ever seen, Brienne." He holds his fingers and thumbs about a few inches apart, running them away from each other on the table in a line, and it is as if he can see it again, right there, in front of him. Even the thought of that makes his breath catch in his chest. "It's definitely Valyrian steel. I could tell that the moment I saw it, up close. The tempering runs through it like veins. And the weight of it," he says quietly, remembering the moment he first picked it up, "it felt _alive_."

 "They let you _handle_ it?" Brienne asks, carefully placing her glass back down whilst she gapes at him, entranced.

 "How else were we going to examine it?" Jaime states, only to laugh lowly. "You should have seen the chief curator when I balanced the flat of it on just a couple of outstretched fingers, though. Poor Willas. I didn't know if he wanted to faint or smite me with it."

 "You didn't!" Brienne exclaims, her love for precious artefacts clear.

 "I bloody well did," Jaime replies, not sorry from that day to this. "I can't explain it, Brienne. I adore all older weaponry, but this...the moment I picked it up, it felt like a part of my own arm. More so than the pins _in_ it. The balance was perfect. So I just...," he holds his fore and mid-fingers straight out in front of him at eye level, gathering his right hand into a fist and turning it at the side, as if resting that stunning blade across them once more, then miming letting go of the grip. "First time. It wasn't even a guess. I just _knew_."

 Brienne sighs. "That sounds amazing."

 "It was, Brienne. Tourist tackiness aside, maybe you should go to see it, one day."

 "I think I probably will now," she says. "I'll just have to find the time," she adds, with a flicker of chagrin. But then she picks up her glass and leans back with a soft thud and a speculative stare. "You know what I'm going to ask next." Jaime does, but he waits until she offers her question. "Which one is it, Jaime?"

 "That's something we're still working on, with Willas. He doesn't travel well. Most of the older institutions still hold collections of obscure, original manuscripts, so he picks up a scent and sends me or Tyrion off to follow it, from time to time. Mostly Tyrion, I'll admit. Dusty old archives are more his thing than mine."

 "Surely you have some idea, Jaime?"

 "An inkling or two, but nothing solid. As you probably know, the guard and pommel were reworked later, though whoever did it was brilliant. They didn't affect the balance one bit. As for the blade itself, the records are few, and don't tend to agree. They can be described as red or silver, blue or black or any combination of the four. I've even seen a couple that described one or two of them glowing with actual light, but I've always regarded that as pile of steaming horseshit."

 "Delicately put," Brienne chides, as Pia comes back over to take their plates.

 "Will you be needing anything else?" she asks, her cheer unremitting, though she looks dead on her feet.

 "Just the bill, please," Brienne quickly replies, and if he finds some amusement in her doing so, it is cut short by Brienne's softly shaken head. "There could soon be far more people like _those_ ," she says, tilting her head carefully to the group of businessmen, who are beginning to become rowdier and more lewd in the far corner of the room. She doesn't even turn in their direction and Jaime can suddenly see that she doesn't want to be noticed by them, the sheer mischance of her back facing them meaning they will have probably taken her for a man.

 Jaime glances at Pia, who also appears slightly edgy. "How much do you earn in a night, if I may be so bold?"

 Pia smiles at them both as she thinks about it, a hair's breadth from settling her breasts onto the finished plates she now bears. "About eighty a full shift."

 "And will you be OK with _them_?"

 "I wouldn't worry," the friendly young woman says, nodding towards the bar area. Leaning on it, a man of about Jaime's age, despite the palm-wide streak of white hair falling in a soft wave to one side of his face, is measuring the loudest group present, and finding them wanting. "I don't think it'll be long before Jaqen gets rid of them."

 "Good to know," Jaime says. "So, as Brienne wants it, could we have that bill?"

 "I'll get it now," Pia says, brightly enough, wending her way back through the tables in a circuitous route, so as to avoid the businessmen.

 Yet Brienne doesn't seem quite so well-tempered. "Why did you ask about her wages, Jaime? That's rude."

 Jaime shifts his hip, and pulls out his wallet. "She's charming, in her own way, Brienne, but it isn't as if I was about to engage her for a lapdance."

 “This part of the business is an actual restaurant, Jaime. They don’t do _any_ kind of dancing in here. And what does it matter what she does, anyway?”

 He waves a thick band of folded leather in front of her face. "That’s not what I meant. I thought I'd give her a day or so off. Like you said, she's tired."

 "Oh," Brienne breathes, almost mirroring his action, though it appears she keeps her wallet in her back pocket, her hip bone hitting the table as she wrangles it out.

 "Ouch," Jaime says in sympathy, but Brienne ignores it, flicking through the thin folds of paper she finds there. "If you can cover the meal, I'll get the tip?" he offers. "Honestly, Brienne, I've spent far less than I normally would on a holiday. It isn't a problem."

 "That I can do," Brienne says, starting to fish out the approximate cost of the meal, without having seen the bill at all. It's a surprising moment, to him, but more of an indicator of his difference to everyone else than hers. Still, he likes her all the more for it.

 Pia returns, a small saucer with two flat, chocolate mints in black paper obscuring the bill itself, and when Jaime picks it up, he is shocked by how cheap this meal was. "How much?" He briefly considers the notion that he has been royally striped by his dinner companion, but knows she isn’t the sort.

 Pia laughs, the sound of it the tinkling of a small waterfall. "That much." She smiles at Brienne, who is already arranging paper dragons and some coin on the plate. "I think they call it a loss leader, in retail, don't they, Brienne? That's what you told me."

 "Yes," Brienne replies, answering Jaime's unspoken question with a short shrug. "I worked through university in a perpetually failing hiking shop. They often sold their sleeping bags far too cheaply, in the hope of selling tents and boots as well. But mostly, they sold the sleeping bags. Even city-based hikers are pretty canny, that way."

 Jaime looks at their waitress. "Pia, I think we're about done, here. We'll take our glasses back to Jaqen. Thanks."

 “It’s okay, just leave them here. I’ll pop back to get them when you’re gone,” Pia tells them, breaking out into what must be the standard goodbye for the place. "Thank you for eating at Arrietty's. Come back soon!"

 The young woman makes her way towards a table closer to the exit, though Brienne softly calls after her before she gets there. "Say hi to Jos for me!"

 Pia sends a quick thumbs-up before tending to her new group. “Jos?” Jaime asks, as Brienne’s attention swings back to him.

 “Her boyfriend. I think they met on their gap year, and decided to stay for a while.”

 “Does he mind her working here?” he says, carelessly dumping the contents of his wallet onto the small plate.

 Brienne grimaces at the mess he’s made, and reaches for the untidy pile of dragons. “It’s like I said, Jaime,” she insists, her shovellish hands making deft work of clearing up the mess, which he finds strangely entrancing. “The locals come here to eat. People bring their _children_ here.”

 “It has a certain reputation.”

 “Jaime, Pia is a waitress. And it wouldn’t matter to me if she _did_ work upstairs. She’s a good woman, and who are we to judge? As far as I can tell, I've always been just as far from normal." She sits back, sips the last of her wine and seems to consider her point further. "Not as far as you, of course."

 "You wound me," Jaime accuses, though she hasn't in the slightest, as that particular truth would be hard to deny. He pushes his own glass away. "Do you think we should get out of here, before I start bleeding over the soft furnishings?"

 Brienne stands, and again, Jaime marvels at how very long it takes her to reach her full height. "I suppose we should," she says, casting a final look down at the tip. “Are you sure about this, Jaime? This looks like a lot.”

 “Why not?” he asks, rising to join her. “Apart from Kharfan’s new bike, I’ve struggled to spend more than fifteen dragons in one hit here.”

 “I saw him out on it earlier,” Brienne tells him, with a warm smile. “He looked ecstatic.”

 “He deserved it. His old one was too small for him.” He moves his face closer to hers whilst they head towards the doors, lowering his voice as they pass a few occupied tables. “He was completely aware of who I was from the moment he clapped eyes on me, you know.”

 Brienne starts and stares at him in surprise. “He was?” She taps Pia’s shoulder when they reach her and points back to their table. “You should see to that soon, Pia. There’s a lot of new people coming in. Thank you.”

 “Will do in a sec, Brienne,” Pia chirps, finishing writing an order on a small notepad. “Enjoy the rest of your evening!” That short blast of unrelenting good cheer is accompanied by a wink and a glance at Jaime that would be comically overblown, were it not so obviously well intentioned.

 Brienne just pats her shoulder with fondness and they move on, stopping near the doors. Their way out is indeed barred by a freshly arrived and very large group of what seem to be visitors to the area, all milling around the hostess in the least organized way humanly possible. “Bloody tourists,” Jaime mutters under his breath, raising a smile from Brienne before he quietly continues. “Yes, apparently Kharfan and a few of his friends have this little detective club thing going on. They like to look into ‘famous historical crimes’.” He winces. “I can’t lie, the word ‘historical’ kicked like a mule.”

 Brienne casts him a look that is both amused and full of sympathy. “Ow.”

 “Quite,” he says, thinking that he is thoroughly enjoying this hushed conversation. “But teaching the dreaded ‘Orphanmaker’ how to ride a bike seems to have improved his status some. He almost seemed disappointed when he realized I wasn’t dangerous.”

 “Poor Kharfan!” Brienne whispers. “Still, I’m sure he and his friends will dine out on the tale for years to come.” Suddenly her head whips to the entrance and, without warning, Jaime’s left arm is grabbed, and she plunges them through what must be a gap she’s seen in the tourists, who appear to be acting under the influence of a hive mind to block the way in and out of Arriety’s forever. She moves at pace through the small lobby, if not shoving people out of the way, certainly making herself imposing enough to clear a path.

 “Neatly done,”’ Jaime says when they step outside, into the balmy air, and Brienne turns to him, with a shrug. Beyond her, along the shallow arc of the bay and in the distance, he can see the string of lights that hang around the awning in front of Barsena’s, swinging in the low night breeze. He looks at her again. “How much longer will you be here, Brienne?”

 “Just one more cycle of guests, though Missy starts work again in a few days. She likes to give me some free time to spend with Lennart, whilst I’m here.” Brienne sighs. “Then it’s back to Haystack and Shyra Errol for me.”

 Jaime tries to imagine her standing at the front of a classroom and smiles. “I’m guessing that time and experience hasn’t changed you into one of those ‘call me Bob’ types of teacher.”

 “Definitely not!” she says, her shoulders squaring at the very idea while she shakes her head. “We have a ‘call me Jimothy’. He’s head of sciences. And I suspect that our esteemed headteacher used to be a ‘call me Renly’, though as he _is_ the headteacher now, he insists on being ‘call me Mr ‘Cool’ Baratheon’. I’m not sure how, but he actually pulls it off.”

 There is such a vast well of affection underlying her words that Jaime feels the bite of jealousy, however unwarranted it is. He reaches out to take Brienne’s hand, though any possessiveness in him drops away when, after a brief stutter of stillness, her fingers wrap loosely around his. “Tell me about him,” he says.

 “Renly?”

 “Yes. What does he teach? He must have a subject, right?”

 Brienne nods, and they set off on the path that skirts the beach, though the grey, herringbone bricks there are half covered with breeze blown sand. “Maths. He really was thinking ahead when he chose it, I think,” she adds, wryly.

 “Why?”

 Brienne starts, glancing at him as if he has asked something completely obvious, but explains anyway. “It a free time thing, Jaime. Maths is a subject where answers are right or wrong. Homework can be marked quickly, even since the syllabuses changed to include working out. Ren sulked about it anyway, but he knows he’s lucky.”

 “Compared to you?”

 “No. History isn’t so bad. But Language and Literature. Now _that’s_ hard work.” Jaime knows he must be telegraphing his continuing ignorance, as Brienne continues. “Most of us have four different classes a day, sometimes more. What do you remember about your homework in Lang/Lit, Jaime?”

 “That I hated it?”

 She grins. “Yes. But what _was_ it?” They come up to a set of black railings that jut out across the path in front of a private property. Brienne pulls Jaime with her, out onto the sands to go around them. “Planning rules are a touch more flexible, over here,” she tells him over her shoulder, though Jaime is busy dealing with a newly borne sense of sympathy for some of the teachers for whom he’d been less than the ideal student.

 “Comprehension. Creative writing. _Essays_ ,” he says, hissing out that last while his feet dig into the deeper sand.

 “Multiply that by at least two classes, Jaime,” Brienne tells him, “and you have the average daily marking for a Lang/Lit teacher. You can’t not bother. You have to be thorough, if you’re any good. You have to read every single word.”

 Jaime thinks about the quality of some of his half-hearted childhood offerings and grimaces. He’d simply never considered homework from the point of view of the person on the other side of the desk. “Surely that’s some kind of torture? Is it even allowed?”

 “I promise you, I’ve seen some teachers sitting with a pile of fifty or sixty books in front of them, wishing the ground would swallow them up whole. I’m pretty sure they’d sometimes rather take on a horde of Oberyn’s walkers.” She laughs softly. “Still, at least Renly tones down his ‘I’ve finished my marking’ dance in the staff room, when workloads are heavy.”

 “He does a dance? That doesn’t sound very…headteacherly.”

 “He actually qualified in Lit/Lang as secondary subjects, so after his crowing, he always helps out, if he can. The students and their families like getting feedback directly from the headteacher, even if the reason for his doing so isn’t quite what they think.” She looks at him as they reach the end of the intrusively placed railings. “If he is a good teacher, and he is, it’s with his staff that Renly really shines.”

 Jaime heads back towards the path with Brienne in tow. “He’s a people person, is he?”

 “More than I could ever be,” Brienne says, though she appears decidedly confused when Jaime grabs her by her shoulders, bringing her to a sudden halt on the paving bricks. “What?”

 “I want to see it, Brienne,” Jaime says slowly, taking a step back, to make sure he has the advantage of a full field of view.

 “You want to see what?”

 “The ‘I’ve finished my marking’ dance.” Brienne instantly starts to protest that she hasn’t ever done it, but Jaime is having none of it. “Are you saying you _can’t_ do it, Brienne?”

 She slaps her fingers over her face and groans. Then long arms are shaken out. "Damn you, Jaime Lannister,” Brienne mumbles, but she is grinning shyly as she holds her hands out in front of her, as if against a window pane. She takes a deep, steadying, breath and then starts to move, her arms making little circles in front of her, soon added to with alternating kicks twirling back from her knees. Her feet shush over the sand on the pathway, the sound reminding Jaime of the tap-dancing he occasionally watches in the middle of the night in hotels, in the older, black and white movies. She begins to turn slowly on the spot, and if his last glimpse of her before her back is turned sees her lower lip being held firm by her teeth in concentration, by the time she is facing him again, her head is bobbing from side to side, her sing-songing of the words 'I finished my marking' breathy, and barely teasing the edge of Jaime's hearing. She makes a second turn, more easily now, and Jaime openly watches the way she moves, her hips shifting with her weight in a way that sets his blood to humming.

 Yet once she can see him again, and notices his rather approving inspection, Brienne naturally freezes, then stuffing her hands roughly into the pockets of her jeans. “That's it. That's the dance,” she says, keeping her head high. Jaime says nothing, but Brienne holds her ground, only speaking again when the silence stretches like taffy between them; Jaime too busy thinking that the end is coming, and that he wishes it weren’t. “The more advanced version might involve dancing all the way around tables,” she finally offers, a touch awkwardly, “but I don't think I'm ready for that yet.”

 Jaime still says nothing, simply looking at her from top to toe, feeling a heated grin break out as it gets to her feet. Brienne swallows, and pouts, and pulls her left heel in, scraping it across the sandy bricks without saying a word herself.

 It is then that Jaime moves nearer, so close he can feel her breath on his skin.

 “I _knew_ you could dance,” he whispers, watching her eyes grow darker.

 For a moment, it feels like they might kiss, that they _should_ kiss, but then Brienne just huffs and shoves gently at his chest, though it doesn’t stop her from taking his hand again seconds later as their walk recommences, the lights of Barsena’s growing ever closer.

 For a while, they continue to say nothing more, and while the occasional hiss of sand rises from the path beneath their feet, Jaime looks at Brienne as she stares out into the darkness covering the sea. She seems distant, and her thoughts could be a million miles from here for all Jaime knows, though in the end her gaze flickers back to capture his. "So what about you, Jaime?" she asks then. "What’s next for you?"

 Jaime simply lets his head fall back and roars quietly at the sky in frustration. "In a few days or so, I’m heading to the North."

 "You don’t sound very happy about it. Do you not like it up there?"

 He squeezes her fingers. "Oh, it’s fine, Brienne. A little windy. Sometimes cold. It’s just…," he lets out an additional, stupendously impressive moan at the tediousness of it all and looks at Brienne. "Eastfall. I’m off to see the bloody Night’s Watch."

 "But they’re a fascinating order," Brienne says, appearing puzzled at his outburst. "Aren't they?"

 "No, Brienne," Jaime says, swinging directly into her path to fully disabuse her of the crackpot academic theories that went mainstream too many years ago. She stops in front of him. "No, they’re _not_. They’re a bunch of overly officious stiffs in macabre uniforms who take the phrase ‘Night’s Watch’ a little too seriously. Do you know their canteens are closed during daylight hours? There is literally no food to be had there, when the sun is up. None. The offices, libraries and even the _shops_ in Eastfall only operate between dusk and dawn." He sneers at every memory he has of the place, and waves his hand out to one side dismissively. "Plus, there’s the whole bear issue, which is infuriating."

 "I thought they were trying to save them," Brienne says. "Didn’t they set up the Gift as a bear conservation area?"

 Jaime holds up a finger in front of her, and just about restrains himself from having serious words with her about believing television adverts full of cute, fluffy bear cubs. "One, it’s a little bit fucking late for that, and two," another finger joins the first, "the bears only _need_ saving because the illustrious Night’s Watch butchered all the rest of them for their hides. ‘We have to have these cloaks! It’s traditional! Our order saved the continent!’ They seem to conveniently forget that they did not, in fact, save Westeros in any way, and that the men who tried weren’t exactly a bunch of shining sodding heroes in the first place!"

 Brienne seems to take his views on board, but if she accepts them, he can't tell, as she looks at him curiously. "I didn't know you cared this much for animals, Jaime."

 "I do, but it’s not that, Brienne. It’s just that every other ceremonial and military organization in the whole world uses synthetics now. Every single one. Except for them, because they're too fucking self-important. What?" He watches Brienne cover her mouth almost daintily with her fingers, and there is no mistaking the stifled noises emerging from her. "Are you giggling at me?"

 Brienne takes a deep breath and regains her composure. "I was just wondering if you have a collection of teddy bears at home."

 "Just the one, as it happens," Jaime says, ignoring her responding with a look that might be aimed, under normal conditions, at one of those orphaned bear cubs. "Ser Dunk was a gift from my mother, when I was small."

 "Ser Dunk?"

 She whispers the name of his oldest friend as if it were made of rainbows, and Jaime responds with as much dignity as he can, given the circumstances. "Yes, Brienne. Ser Dunk. He used to dunk chocolate chip cookies into my beaker of milk for me. As his services in that regard are no longer required, he has taken to a gentlemanly retirement in a shoebox, under my bed. Occasionally he comes out for a chat or a movie, but he prefers the peace and quiet these days." He turns the question back on its source. "You? Do you have an alarming collection of cuddly toys? You seem like the sort."

 "No. None," Brienne tells him, a flicker of a frown ghosting over her lips. "A sort of...friend of the family took them away when she felt I was too big for them."

 "Doesn't sound like much of a bloody friend."

 "She wasn't." Brienne seems to be fairly accepting of the fact, but given that she was probably thought 'too big' to cart around stuffed animals by the age of seven, he can't help but think of her as a lonely girl who didn’t fit in, missing her own small friends.

 He bumps his arm against hers in poor consolation. "I should pass on Ser Dunk Lannister's regards now, seeing as I have the opportunity. He's going to be appalled when I tell him about it."

 Brienne’s head falls forward, but when Jaime follows it, he can see she is smiling softly, down at her own feet. She turns her face to his. “Make sure to thank Ser Dunk for me.”

 “I will,” he says, adding, “I give you my word as a Lannister,” with some flair.

 Brienne laughs as she straightens up again, only to ask, “Couldn’t you just give me your word as Jaime?”

 “If that’s what you’d prefer, Brienne.”

 “It is,” she tells him, suddenly sombre, and he feels those two words as much as any others she has said to him. Brienne knows him, and yet she wants his promise, no matter that it is over a talk with a toy.

 “Done,” he says, running a fingertip down from the bridge of her nose. They are caught, midway between two lamps, and he can only count three dark freckles on that short journey, though he knows there are more.

 The end of their walk is getting nearer, and even if Jaime doesn’t want it to, if he suspects both of them want it to go on for as long as possible, he doesn’t quite expect it being interrupted in the manner it is, only a dozen or so steps further on. Jaime nearly staggers to his knees when he is hit in the back by a low, flying object. Brienne keeps him on his feet when Pia, who turns out to be the object in question, works her way around to face Jaime, grasping him in a mighty hug, for one so small. "Thank you. _Thank you!_ I've been so knackered, lately. Thank you!" Pia keeps talking at an enormously fast rate, words about her Jos and deposits and finally getting some rest and how happy she is piling out of her at breakneck speed.

 “It was nothing, Pia.”

 For a split-second, the young woman stands stock-still, staring up at him from within her long, thinly padded jacket. But then she starts again, her stream of consciousness natter getting yet faster, making it near to unintelligible.

 If anything makes Pia's enthusiastic welcoming of what, for Jaime, was a small gesture meaninglessly odd, it is surely that this, one of his first close encounters with a woman for a few years, doesn't move him at all. She is soft and curved in all the right ways, but part of him barely seems to recognize that, a light twitch in his balls when she starts jumping up and down against him the only awkward recognition of the fact that she happens to be female. And even then, it is all askew, his body wanting something else. Someone stronger. Someone gentler.

 He attempts to peel Pia’s arms away, but it proves a more of a task than he might have thought, her unwillingness to let go enough to override his wish for her to do so. He looks at Brienne in desperation. Even though the scene is obviously the cause of some good humour for her, Brienne clears her throat and speaks at a level which just about cuts through the din flowing from their erstwhile waitress. “Pia. You were talking about a deposit? Have you decided to stay for a while longer?”

 As if by magic, Jaime is freed, only for Brienne to be hit by a whirlwind of affection. Pia throws herself up and hangs around Brienne’s neck, her feet kicking behind herself in the air. “Yes! It’s much better over here than in Westeros, and now we can almost afford our own place! You know the new studio flats behind the civic centre?” Brienne shakes her head, her neck straining, yet Pia doesn’t appear to notice, her joyous chatter continuing without pause. “I thought we would have to work for at least another five months to save up for it! And have you seen the shower rooms? They’re tiny, but they’re walk-in! Can you believe that? I’ve never had -“

 Pia’s monologue goes on and on and Jaime tunes it out, simply watching as Brienne eventually detaches Pia's ferocious grip from her neck with the minimum of force, and lets the younger woman slide softly down until her short wellies hit the ground. He wonders what it must be like for Brienne, to be considered a piece of climbing apparatus by so many who are more than a foot shorter than she is, but his ceasing to listen proves to be an error, for as soon as Pia sees she is on her own two feet once more, her attention flies back to Jaime.

 To prevent her attempting another death grip, Jaime holds his hands out with a wry grin to impede her progress. "Let’s stop this right now, Pia, before you start kissing my feet."

 Small, pretty features screw up in sheer disgust, even if it is fleeting. "Now _that_ you'd have to tip more for!" Pia giggles, throwing out a last, effusive bout of thanks before she sprints off along the bay just as fast as she can, given her themed, rural footwear. Jaime and Brienne watch her run, her straw still held firm in her hair and her jacket flapping around her bare legs.

 “She’s a bundle of fun, isn’t she?” Jaime says. "Though I'm not sure about the coat."

 Brienne stares at him as if he is clueless. "You really haven't spent that much time with women, have you, Jaime? She's a young woman who isn't wearing very much and is out at night," she adds, by way of explanation. "It's what a lot women feel they have to do."

 "Point taken," he says, accepting as fact something he's simply never had to consider.

 He fumbles for Brienne's fingers when they set off in Pia's footsteps. Brienne's thumb brushes over his, back and forth, and if they don't say anything more as they finally approach Barsena's, Jaime doesn't want this to end.

 This holiday, or even this day alone, which has seen him spend a lot of time with Brienne. It had started in the sea with a swim and, as Walda would rightly put it, a great deal of bickering; each minor verbal scuffle matched with an increasing ease between them. He might have introduced a number of subjects in the pure hope of causing the odd blush or two, but he didn't even try to deny it, when challenged on the matter, and it worked anyway. The time at Grey's had been exhilarating, though Missandei's apparent need to see him under the cosh had resulted in less freedom for Jaime to just spar with Brienne, as he thinks they would have both preferred. And they'd talked whenever they could, about everything and nothing, sorting through the tensions of yesterday and arriving at a better place. Throughout, the only time when Jaime ensured his absence was when candles were being lit, but that was more for his own peace of mind than Brienne's.

 They come to a halt in front of Barsena's. The little restaurant where he has spent a large amount of his time here is heaving with locals, who he's noticed during his stay tend to eat in the latter part of the evening. There are a number of staff, flitting from table to table, and if they have no time to take a break from the grind, Barsena still manages to winnow a few seconds out of her labours when she sees Jaime and Brienne standing outside. Suddenly, her normal efficiency drops away; she shoves a pile of empty plates precariously onto the edge of a table full of customers and lets out a short, delighted squeal that can be heard, despite the door being closed. Her hands fly up into the air, her fingers wiggling, soon joined by her hair being flicked about dramatically.

 "Is that a hangover from her time in the cages?" Jaime asks.

 "I think it _is_ , now that you mention it," Brienne says, her head tilting off to the right whilst the restaurant owner clasps her hands together in front of her chest and starts to shimmy in a way that is part sensuality, part aggression. "I don't know. It might be?"

 "We're only bloody holding hands," Jaime mutters, lifting them up for Barsena to fully see, though the gesture is wasted. Her moment of approval done, she is already back at her work, just a small wave being sent as she moves away from the window with her hastily retrieved plates.

 "Do you make a habit of holding hands with your friends then, Jaime?" Brienne says, looking first at their joined fingers, and then at him, the shadow of a smile on her lips.

 Jaime pretends to think about it for a moment. "Not since my first year at Crakehall. Even then, Addam wasn't too keen, I must admit."

 "Crakehall," Brienne scoffs, and Jaime notes his own lack of surprise at her doing so. "You went to _Crakehall?"_

 "And what, precisely, is wrong with that, Brienne?"

 "Nothing," Brienne says, though Jaime believes he would be able to feel her disapproval of the most shockingly expensive school in the world, if he were standing back at Arriety's.

 He leans in, resting his arm firmly against hers. "You do love a rush to judgment, don’t you, Miss Tarth?"

 "I'm not judging!" she says, though she is barely able to bring herself to look at him when she does so.

 "Oh, you are, Brienne," he tells her, shifting so they are face to face, and waiting for her gaze to come back to him. Only then does he go on. "But I wouldn’t worry. It’s kind of hot."

 That solid gold truth, at least for him, catches her totally off guard. "It's wh...it's what?" she stutters.

 "I'm serious, Brienne," he says, looking her up and down. "You have this whole stern thing going on, and do you _ever_ know how to work it."

 "Stop that," she says, with her characteristic bluntness.

 Jaime just winks at her. "See what I mean?" He sets off, intending to cover the width of the restaurant's decking without delay, even if progress is slowed by Brienne letting out a gasp of exasperation before she decides to follow him. Their arms are stretched out tight between them, though Jaime feels her hand stay with his.

 They turn into the main drag, up in the direction of Sunshine Apartments. Jaime says a silent goodbye to the beach, the trellis edging the boundary of Barsena's and the place he has come to think of as his own there, as it all moves out of view. By now, they have slowed again, and are moving at a snail's, or perhaps even a slug's, pace. "There’s one other thing you haven’t told me, of course," he says to Brienne, unable to resist that one last chance to pilfer a reaction from his unexpected, and wholly welcome, new friend, however much more than that he would want them to be.

 "What is it, Jaime?"

 She is staring up at the stars, seemingly distracted, when he answers her. "Your favourite king or queen. You must have one, being a history wench and all."

 That drags her attention back in fairly short order. She pulls her hand from his. "I’m a _what_ now?"

 "What’s wrong with that? You obviously like history, and history is replete with wenches." He stretches to his full height whilst they amble along, and finds that having to direct a smug look yet further upwards may be in danger of becoming addictive. "Fact."

 For upwards of half a minute, Jaime gets to see the marvel that is Brienne's face when she doesn't quite know what to say to him. She frowns, and gapes, and her eyebrows seem determined to dance over about as much of her forehead as they can reach, until she settles for lifting her left hand and jerking her thumb back in the direction of the beach. "I think I proved at Grey’s that I’m more than capable of burying you up to the neck in sand, Jaime. Below the tideline, if I have to."

 "You didn't, and you wouldn’t," Jaime says surely, casting a quick glance behind them, though there is no information to be gleaned from the darkness there. "The tide’s in, anyway." He musters up the most challenging look he can. "I just think you don’t want to tell me. It’s going to be a boring one, isn’t it?"

 "I have no problem with answering the question, Jaime," Brienne says, coupling a tone verging on the lofty with a look to match. "Guthrum the Second."

 Her choice is neither surprising nor particularly unwarranted, but it is enough to set him to laughing, his footsteps faltering. "Guthy the Dull? Gentle Rummy? The most mind-numbingly self-righteous king to ever rest his arse on the Iron Throne?"

 Brienne goes straight for gaping this time, a sharp cry of outrage falling from her lips before she can even try to offer any defence of the man. "He kept the peace for fifty years, Jaime! And he set up the very basis of our justice system, not to mention going some way to easing the sufferings of the poor."

 Jaime taps at his ear. "Sorry, what was that? I can only hear white noise! I may be in danger of falling into a spontaneous coma, over here!"

 "You idiot," she says fondly, kicking at his right foot, before they shuffle off again. "Go on then," she sighs after a few seconds, into the night air. "Tell me _your_ favourite."

 "Guess," he tells her, but she just shakes her head sadly.

 "No, Jaime, I'll just wait for you to give me the same name I expect from every twelve year old boy."

 "Athan Stark."

 "And there he is!" Brienne groans, her eyes rolling magnificently. Then she smiles at him, though Jaime is left under the distinct impression that the word 'shambles' might be making one of its frequent appearances, somewhere in that head of hers. "Remind me, Jaime, if you would," she says, almost sweetly, "just how many of his wives did he have executed?"

 "All in _very_ unfortunate circumstances, I'll grant you," Jaime concedes. "But I think even you would give, say...six inches of your height to have been at the battle of Whitecaps."

 Brienne stops dead in her tracks, unwilling to budge an inch on the matter as she folds her arms across her chest, though Jaime is certain she would have wanted to witness it too. "I'd give six inches of my height for an extra slice of toast in the morning, Jaime. I don't think that counts."

 He turns back to her and they stand, nose-to-nose in the street, suddenly trying not to grin at one another. "I'd rather you didn't, Brienne. Besides, wouldn't you miss your feet?"

 "My feet?" Brienne asks, her lips trembling in an effort not to laugh. "I suppose I should be grateful those inches wouldn't be lost from my head. Like, for example, Athan's _wives."_

 "I’m not saying I’d want to go drinking with the man, Brienne." Jaime snags her fingers with his and moves along once more, waiting for her to be right at his side. Her shoulder bumps against his and he makes his case. "But Whitecaps did last for three whole days."

 "He was a military genius, Jaime. I _know_. But he also had a lot of dead wives." The look she gives him is pointed, if warm. "Funny, I thought that might have mattered to you, given your past."

 "It does, Brienne." It is good of her to think of his 'historical' crime, but still, the young boy in Jaime can't quite let Athan go. "The Charge of the 80,000, though."

 Brienne hums doubtfully to herself, but then gives the tiniest of grudging nods. "I guess that was kind of impressive."

 "See? I _knew_ you’d want to be there!" Jaime says, adding, in a distinctly suggestive whisper, "Such a history wench."

 "You might want to stop that. Quite soon."

 But Brienne is smiling, and Jaime winks at her again, simply because he can. "Alternatively, I might not."

 For a few scant seconds more, they make their way along, their talk reduced to simple smiles and swinging, entwined hands. But at the same moment, they both see that they are at the home of Grey and Missandei, and their happiness drops into nothingness, the knowledge that Jaime is sure is gnawing at both of them, that this is _it_ , driving any further speech away. The only sign of their approach to parting is their fingers tangling more tightly as they cross the road. The yellow painted walls of Sunshine Apartments loom over them now, made more garish in the unforgiving glare of the streetlights.

 They make their final turn and continue to walk in silence, their clasped hands hanging between them, their footsteps echoing loudly, despite the soft music emanating from a flat above the tiny delicatessen across the lane, which has long since closed up or the night. Jaime's stomach feels like it is falling, his heart and mind racing as they bear right, into the archway, and he decides to take a risk. He simply doesn't stop moving around her, loosely clasping the side of Brienne's waist until her back bumps gently against the wall. He can hardly resist the urge to just press himself against her, to feel her, but he does, the half a hand's width between them feeling like a score or more of miles.

 "What?" Brienne asks quietly.

 "This was a date, Brienne."

 She worries at her lips with her teeth for a second, her eyes narrowing in the shadows. "Technically, yes."

 "Now, I'm no expert on dates," Jaime whispers, ignoring Brienne's light, slightly nervous snort at his comment in every way, except to tickle her ribs for a fleeting moment as his fingers travel up from her waist, coming to rest at the side of her head, on the cool bricks of the wall. She snorts again, more openly, and he simply can't fathom why he doesn't mind at all. He waits for her to settle and continues. "As I was saying, I'm new to actual dating, but I do recall hearing some talk of them ending with kissing."

 "Traditionally? They might," she whispers back.

 "Technically. Traditionally. Brienne, I don't care. I just don't want to leave here without us having kissed."

 "We have kissed!" Brienne says, though then she turns her face to the street, her voice trailing away weakly. "There was kissing."

 "I seem to remember _I_ did some," he says to the skin of her neck. Even in this light, there is the faintest impression of the blood, pulsing within. "How about you?"

 She says nothing, simply turning back to him and letting her gaze run over him for a time, over lips and eyes and cheeks and brows. But there is no warning when she moves, a sudden darting forward of her head which, paired with her eyes clamping shut, leaves no room or time for avoiding an unfortunate collision.

 Jaime leans away, if only to give himself room to quickly rub at the bridge of his nose whilst he laughs softly. "Brienne Tarth, are you a danger to _all_ men's noses? I think you should have mentioned that before now."

 "No! Are you okay?"

 The passing of a second is all it takes for Jaime to see that Brienne is mortified by this, the tiniest of occurrences, and less than a second more for him to reach out her, running his palm gently down, over her hair, and stroking his knuckles over her cheek.  "Never better, Brienne," he tells her, letting his thumb skim the length of her nose again, just in case. "You?"

 She nods again, shyly, some tension in her now, but Jaime doesn't want to let this chance go over something so meaningless as a clash of noses. So he kisses her instead, the first press of his lips to hers met with a stillness that only takes the space of a breath to drop away; a short sigh of something like relief shuddering through Brienne's frame before she rests her hands on his waist and her mouth joins his in a dance which, if slow at first, is just what he needs too. He rests a hand of his own at the side of her neck and brushes a fingertip against the soft skin beneath her ear. She practically mewls in response, and Jaime takes the opportunity of her slightly parting lips to let his tongue explore her as well.

 Only the briefest moment is enough to have him smiling, even while they kiss. "You taste of steak," he says on her mouth.

 "I think we both do," Brienne mumbles against him, a light flicker of her tongue seeking his lips as if in confirmation of it, and he can feel her smiling with him, when it comes to her.

 He moves his head away, simply to give himself the space to purr, "Good steak."

 Brienne bites her lip and nods, her shyness ebbing. She kisses him then, and from there thoughts are abandoned for a while, everything given over to sensation as mouths play. Jaime has no idea how long it takes for Brienne to pull him fully against her, as time itself seems to have fled, but the moment he feels it, her arms snaking around his back, he lets out a low, deep groan, like a man thirsting for water, and drops his head to her shoulder.

 "What is it, Jaime?" Her voice is unbelievably husky, but slightly tremulous, so before she can find any fault in herself, Jaime reaches blindly down for the back of her knee, pulling it up to his side. He pushes his hips against her, not hiding how hard he is, nor the moan that escapes him at how right she feels. Brienne's eyes close at the sound, but Jaime doesn't miss her sharp gasp either.

 "You do realize we could fuck standing up, Brienne," Jaime rasps out, any gentility in him being overtaken by rapidly increasing need. "It'd be _perfect_. I don't think I'd even have to lift you up."

 Her eyes are like midnight as she stands in the shade and in his arms, her mouth dropping into a perfect round of shock. Then she looks away and down, to the lamplight flooding the floor from the street. Yet if her chest is moving rapidly against his, as if deciding on fight or flight, she hasn't pushed him away, and he can feel her lower leg brushing softly against his thigh while she swings it loosely in the air behind him.

 Then her head rises. "As if you could," she says, the finest edge of defiance in her. " _Lift me_ , I mean," she adds, hurriedly.

 His suddenly dry lips tease at her cheek. "Please don't tempt me, Brienne. Either way."

 Then she is staring straight at him, their noses side by side. Jaime hasn't budged an inch since he pressed himself so close to her, and it is as if Brienne's leg has become suddenly frozen, neither one of them willing to make the call they have to. "If only we had a little more time!" Brienne eventually cries out, dropping an arm away from Jaime and slapping her palm on the brickwork behind her in frustration.

 Jaime pushes himself away from the wall, from her, his own frustration evident as he bites out, "You couldn't have said that a few days ago?"

 "No, Jaime," Brienne says, not an ounce of anger in her. She is no-one's mirror. "You know that." And he does.

  _We're not that kind._

 He watches Brienne walk away and stand in silhouette at the end of the archway, sideways on. She rests her hand on her stomach and tips her head backwards, her mouth open, simply waiting for her breathing to slow.

 Jaime has less success in coming back to himself, his cock having ideas of its own, though he knows damned well that if he spent one night with this woman, he would end up needing her like he does air. "I guess this is where we should end it," he says, each word a mountain to move from his throat.

 She turns to him and nods slowly.

 "Can't we at least keep in contact?" Jaime loathes himself when he hears the faint note of desperation in his voice, which to him sounds like a wail; something borne of the past, an unpleasant thread from years ago that he hasn't managed to cut away yet, it would seem. But Brienne appears to understand it, and walks back to him.

 "I'll give you my number, Jaime, but please," she says, shaking her head, "don't make any promises. I've worked here too long. I've seen too many promises broken, by too many people, to believe them."

 "Not even mine?"

 "Ser Dunk," she whispers, staring up at the curve of the arch and smiling joyfully, painfully. She looks at him, and it is no less. "Like I said, I'll give you my number. But I think it best to call this what it probably is. An ending." She reaches up to touch his face, but then drops her arm to her side. "We lead very different lives, Jaime. Let's not fool ourselves. We might both have made mistakes in the past, but neither of us are stupid."

 "Are you saying this was a mistake, Brienne?"

 "No, Jaime!" she says, warm and fierce. "I'm not. I could never say that. I wouldn't."

 Brienne takes his hand one last time, and Jaime lets himself be led into the courtyard, each step leaden with reluctance. It isn't dark there, the three electric safety lights that always spring into life in the later evenings on the ground floor small, but harsh in their brilliance, and matched by their counterparts on the upper landings. Yet he can't fail to notice that the warmer light of the candles in the wall sconces is nearly gone, only a couple of flames remaining, rising and falling as they gutter in their final moments.

 The parallel isn't lost on Jaime as Brienne turns to face him. "Please wait here?" she asks. She appears to take his silence as acquiescence and heads to 1E, and Jaime feels close to detached from himself, even as he takes in the curious sight of Brienne opening her door and then leaning on it, pulling off one of her plimsolls. She stuffs the toe of it under the door to keep it open, and then looks back at him. Why she has done it, Jaime can't tell, but he can see it is not an invitation.

 She becomes a shadow then, as if already gone from his life, the light from outside a feebler influence in her own space. Nonetheless, he can see her moving, can see when she opens a low cupboard door, and when she kneels on the floor on the other side of it. Then she doesn't move at all. He knows that she is looking out at him, her ears a signal of it, if nothing else, and if Jaime thinks that he can see her eyes, he can't be certain it isn't simply in his head.

 Then she crouches, and Jaime listens, smiling briefly as it takes more than one run of spinning clicks for her to achieve her objective. He wants to question the wisdom of her showing the location of the safe to a known criminal, not to mention her choice of accessing it in near darkness, yet he can't. He doesn't want this.

 Brienne emerges from her cupboard, closing it and disappearing over to some drawers. One opens, and closes, the rasp of wood on wood sharp.

 Then she comes out to Jaime, his belongings held gently in her hands. His own hands rise without thought in front of him, and as if handling items of boundless worth and fragility, Brienne first smoothes the folds of his favourite, green shirt over his palms, and then delicately places his phone on top of it.

 She's giving him his life back, and Jaime isn't sure he wants it.

 Quietly, Brienne steps in, folding Jaime's hands up against his chest to get closer. With the most extraordinary delicacy, she brushes her lips against his cheek, where stubble meets bare skin. It is so light, there is hardly any real sensation to be had, but Jaime feels branded by it. "Thank you. This has been good. I'll miss it," she whispers into his ear.

 She steps back from him then, and the woman he has come to know is already beginning to disappear. "Goodnight, Jaime," she says, with the utmost politeness. "I'll see you in the morning."

 He wants to rage and fight this inevitability, but knows there is no point in his doing so. Brienne's mind is already made up, and if she is not entirely inflexible in thought, as he has so sweetly discovered during his stay in Sunshine Apartments, she knows enough to be dogged in her belief that the more important promises thrown out in far-off places have little chance of surviving for long, when ordinary life beckons. He will do his best to convince her otherwise, but he can't pretend to know what the future holds. With a final nod, he turns and walks slowly up the stairs, his gaze fixed to every tread all the way. When he gets to 3A, he glances down. She is still there, watching him, and Jaime leans against the railings, wrapping his phone in his shirt before he tries to soak in every last detail of Brienne that he can.

 For this is not the woman he will encounter in the morning. She'll be Brienne, sure enough, but the Brienne who makes herself small, in her own way, willing to give for everyone, for their ease. Jaime likes her exactly as she is now. He doesn't know if she is aware that, from what he can tell, her ponytail is about to fail her, her hair coming very loose from it. She is standing there awkwardly, her hands in her pockets, one foot shod and the other covered only by a sock that she probably can't tell she had twisted when her plimsoll was removed. If there is war currently being fought in her eyes, between warmth for him and that tediously reliable Brienne he had met on his first day here, it is not Jaime's to fight, though he can't help but think she looks better kissed, than not. No. This truly isn't the Brienne she'll be, come the morning, so Jaime can't see the point of wishing her a goodnight, in the hope of seeing her again. This is to be their last balcony scene, and it is by far the bitterest.

 "Goodbye, Brienne," Jamie says, and exits their stage.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow's chapter will arrive at 07.00 GMT.


	10. Ten Days - Day Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: standard disclaimer applies. I have a science blue Star Trek dressing gown. That may not be relevant here.
> 
> Time: 07.00 GMT

 

**TEN DAYS - DAY TEN**

 Jaime immediately hears the key in the door to apartment 3A and checks that his trusty bedsheet is not leaving him _too_ exposed, before letting his eyes drift shut.

 "Jaime?" Brienne pads in and he hears the soft rubber soles of her plimsolls squeak to a halt on the floor tiles when she sees him. "Jaime!"

 He opens one eye, extremely lazily. "Yes, Brienne?" Despite too much thought and want having stolen his sleep once more, Jaime tries not to grin outright as he watches Brienne stand stock still, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open, most definitely not looking at the kettle on the side. For good measure, Jaime stretches like a cat, well aware that he has the ability to stop her thoughts dead in their tracks this way, if he really wants to. Which, it just so happens, he does. "What's wrong?"

 He looks at her, feigning innocence, and after a few further seconds of frankly glazed staring she actually appears to shake herself, her both adorably and annoyingly neat plait tapping audibly against her back as she does so. Then she frowns at him. "You're not even dressed!" she protests, folding her arms across her chest.

 Jaime lifts his head, glances along himself weakly, and then flops it back down again. "It would appear not. How very observant of you."

 "I mean," she says, edging her toe over to his nearby suitcase, groaning when a quick nudge tells her that it is plainly empty, "that you're not dressed, let alone packed! It's _late_ , Jaime. Get a move on!" She crouches down and unzips the case with brutal efficiency, studiously ignoring him as she moves around the beds to the large set of drawers in the corner. She starts opening and searching them in a fury, closing the empty ones immediately, and retrieving his paltry collection of clothes as she finds them.

 "What if I don't want to?" At his petulant tone she looks back over her shoulder, a scowl he reckons could cut any of her students down to size stamped all over her.

 "Jaime, everybody else is waiting on the coach. Even _Tyrion_ is there," she says, dragging out a couple of pairs of jeans from a middle drawer and leaning down to quickly check the lower ones, which she seems to have rightly worked out would have been given over to his brother. Who was correct all along about her legs, Jaime has to admit, even as she kicks them back closed and she piles his untidy collection of clothes onto one hand, ending up steadying the narrow, unstable pile under her chin. "And do you never fold your clothes?" she asks, her voice a tad muffled by a scrunched t-shirt, her free hand dancing around to keep it in place whilst she marches back to his suitcase and drops his clothes in, wholesale.

 "I think we've already established that I'm quite new to that kind of endeavour," he offers, while Brienne kneels in front of the case and starts to neaten the mess there.

 She pauses, an arm flies, and a pair of undershorts promptly hits Jaime square in the face. "Get dressed, Jaime. No more games. If we don't leave soon, you and Tyrion will be the first to miss a flight."

 Jaime sits, dragging his sheet with him, before carelessly tossing the offered clothing back into the suitcase. Brienne looks up at him pleadingly, and seeing that, he meets it with seriousness. She is hurting, and he wouldn't have her hurt for him. "And what if I don't _have_ to go, Brienne? What then? No games."

 Ever so slowly, Brienne stands and backs away a step or two. She has the lines of the floor tile edges, marked in pale pink, just below her knees. "What are you saying, Jaime?"

 He stands as well, and ties his sheet around him in the same way he had on the day he arrived at Sunshine Apartments. "Brienne, I can be packed and on that dreadful excuse for a vehicle in five minutes, if you want me to be. I don't mind." But he does, and if each word is making Brienne seem less concerned, they only make him more uncertain, for he feels as if he is blindfolded, fumbling about in an unknown room. "When you said 'if only we had a little more time' last night, it got me to thinking." Jaime stops and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. "Not true. When _I_ said 'if only we had a little more time' to Tyrion last night, it got _him_ to thinking, though not until after he called me 'incredibly, impressively stupid'. Amongst other, more colourful things."  Brienne smiles at this, and nods for him to continue. "Don't worry about Tyrion's flight, by the way. He re-booked for a later, more 'hideously expensive' one. He only likes going cattle-class when I'm with him, because I find it really cramped. I think he misses the champagne."

 Brienne's eyebrow twitches. "Cattle-class," she says dryly, taking a small step towards him. "And are you babbling, Jaime?"

 "It's not a habit of mine," Jaime says, perhaps a touch defensively, only to add, "but I am a forty year old man, who has never had the need to have a conversation like this before. I could be...skittish?"

 Brienne reaches out, her hand bitten by barely visible tremors, brushing a single fingertip lightly against his shoulder before letting it fall away again. "I can understand skittish. Go on, Jaime."

 Just that gentle caress is enough, and her voice is thick too, so Jaime cuts to the chase. "I went to Lennart, late last night, to see if there were any vacancies. If I could stay." He watches her carefully as he asks, "Would another ten days be enough?"

 Brienne's eyes flutter shut, and Jaime marvels that a face he'd found ugly upon his arrival is now fascinating and beautiful to him, as old doubts and newer questions play silently over her features, only to be replaced by certainty and happiness. When her eyes, those eyes, open again, they could outrank any sunrise he's seen here, that he's ever seen anywhere, they are so brilliant.

 And she takes the risk he has spent the night convincing himself she wouldn't. "Yes," Brienne breathes.

 Air rushes out of Jaime harshly, catching him unawares, because he had not known he was holding himself that still, waiting for her answer. "Really, Brienne?"

 If he sounds a touch stunned, Brienne does too as she again tell him, _"Yes_ , Jaime."

 They look at each other almost stupidly for a few seconds, until Jaime's mind judders back into proper life. "Thank fuck for that," he says, pulling at the tie at his waist and letting his improvised, yet loyal shield of modesty drop to the floor. "I'm not one for skirts, as a rule."

 Brienne yanks her head to one side, her lips almost disappearing into her mouth as she begins to stare doggedly at a patch of plain wall.

 Jaime sighs. "I take it this is too soon for an introduction?"

 Brienne slaps a hand over her face then, and soft, ringing laughter comes from behind it, low and sweet. Her shoulders are twitching as she turns back to Jaime, an uneven red flush spreading across her freckled cheeks, somewhat hidden, and then more blotchily down her neck. Eventually, she peels her fingers away, one by one, and as she had when they first spoke, she makes sure her gaze is firmly attached to his, and nowhere else just yet. "After last night? No. This isn’t too soon, Jaime," she says, with relief, and with joy. "But I have to confess, the day you _arrived_ might have been."

 "I was careful!"

 "You were sleepy, Jaime," Brienne reminds him softly, pointing behind him. "And a corner of your sheet got caught on that bedpost. For a while there, you weren't so much wearing a skirt as a train."

 "Ah. That probably was too soon, all things considered." It certainly explains why Tyrion had suddenly been in such a hurry to leave as well, the interfering shit.

 They grin at each other, and Jaime suspects that they both look like idiots, but at least they are undoubtedly happy ones. Jaime takes a cautious step nearer, and if Brienne doesn't seem to be able to command her feet, rooted as they are to the spot, she reaches for him, utterly gently, bringing him close. Everything feels off kilter, yet in the best possible way, the sensation of her trembling fingers reverberating through him just enough to make Jaime think that he might be about to make an even bigger fool of himself.

 "Fuck," he mutters, quickly sweeping the hem of her skirt up over the outside of her thighs as their bodies meet, gripping her hips underneath pale blue. He lets his head fall to her shoulder as his cock finds the line where her thighs meet and slides against it. He couldn't name the noise that wanders out from deep in his chest in that moment for all of the riches in the world, but it emerges, deep and needy, only to be muffled by Brienne's neck.

 She, meanwhile, gasps softly, her chest shivering against his, and her words are husky once more, even if, today, they aren't quite what he spent the night imagining they could be. "What? _Now_?"

 "No, not now," Jaime chuckles softly, lifting his head until they are almost nose to nose. "Still. I don't want to make like one of those teens in those books of yours and stain your skirt." He winks, though it is a distracted one, at best. "Call it a precaution."

 After a moment of understanding widens her eyes, Brienne naturally objects. "Not my books, and I don't think they do in them," Brienne whispers, lifting her hands to his face. "Though they probably should, if they're going to be realistic."

 She steals a soft kiss from him, short and sweet, and as she does so her hips rock by the smallest amount, driving the tip of him up to meet her smallclothes, which does nothing to hide the heat of her, or the want in him. They both groan then, Jaime's fingers scrabbling at her hips, only to see him quietly press his lips to hers. "Are those white cotton?" he mumbles against her. She nods slowly, his head following hers. All he can see is blue. "List," he smiles, and that blue turns slightly hopeless.

 "There _isn't_ one," Brienne whispers, and Jaime shivers as her hands drift down and around to his back. "Jaime Lannister, you have to get over your weird innocence thing. I'm not -"

 "You think sex has anything to do with innocence?" he grins. "You just _are_ , Brienne. You're so damned good."

"What's wrong with being good?" she manages to pout, though her voice is shaking.

 “Nothing. Or so it turns out.” Jaime pushes her against the wall, barely a foot or so behind her, and doesn't delay in following her, wanting to taste her, to feel her.

 Then they are all hands and lips, his fingers twisting in thin cotton and hers roving freely over him, quickly taking residence over his hips and working in opposition, her palms warm and pulling as her thumbs sweep up and down over the skin of his lower stomach, exploring, achingly close to the part of him that needs her the most right now. This morning, her mouth tastes strongly of mint and faintly of something else, a hint of some exotic fruit he can’t remember as their tongues touch and he considers himself wholly taken.

 There is no grace in this. They kiss, but he is thrusting against her unashamedly now, like an uncharming youngster barrelling towards his first chance of a tumble, the feel of her thighs and the flimsy barrier keeping him from where he most wants to be both enticing and infuriating in equal measure. And if a tiny corner of his mind is screaming at him that he is going too fast, most of him shouts back that they only have ten more days, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to waste a minute of them.

 For her part, Brienne seems to agree, the rolling of her hips a wave he is riding rather than causing, the small moans of pleasure she hums into his mouth fusing his brain.

 So it is peculiar that he should be the first to acknowledge what will make this stop, the feel of their bodies against one another so sweet, but the nagging sound beating in through the narrowly opened balcony door makes him pull away, bracing himself against the wall, his hands by the side of her waist, his breathing emerging in stuttering gasps. For a second or two, Brienne looks at him in horror, as if he has suddenly decided to reject her, but he just shakes his head sharply.

 Then she appears to notice the almost constant beeping of the horn on the bus as well, and she leans her head back against the wall with a soft bump and a defeated whimper. “I have to work,” she eventually mutters, and she sounds as sore as Jaime feels about the fact. 

 He laughs, albeit with some resignation, and touches the briefest of kisses to the end of her nose. “I guess you should go, before they send out a search party,” he says, only to add, “But you? Me? The wall? Later on?”

 “Yes.” Brienne pushes Jaime away gently and straightens her skirt, her gaze drifting over him shyly now, as if she can’t quite believe he’s there. Slowly, she unclips a key from her waistband and presses it into his hand. “For 1E,” she tells him.

 Jaime stares at the dull piece of brass. “I realize I'm already naked, but I hadn’t figured _you_ for such a fast mover,” he smiles. “We’ve been together for twelve seconds and you’re already asking me to move in?”

 “No!” Brienne huffs, turning a quite adorable shade of pink and pointing at the single beds behind Jaime. “But I thought you might want to put some spare clothes in there. Maybe a toothbrush. I have a large bed, remember?”

 “I can’t say as I do,” Jaime says, with no need to lie. He runs his left forefinger up the side of Brienne’s neck, following muscle and sinew, and she almost mewls in response. Her neck is quickly turning out to be one of the most entertaining parts of her, Jaime thinks, as he adds, “Funnily enough, I think I was too distracted to notice the furnishing, when I came to call.”

 There’s another burst of beeping from outside, more hurried and insistent now. Brienne looks at Jaime hopelessly, but he simply smiles and kisses her one more time. Then he lets his gaze fall to the floor, past his aching cock, trying to ignore it. “You’d better go, Brienne. And take that left heel of yours with you.” Brienne drops her head next to his and laughs softly as she wiggles her foot from side to side. “Tease,” Jaime says huskily and she smiles brightly at him. She kisses him and moves towards the door, only to turn back, swiftly closing the gap between them to kiss him again.

 “Later,” she promises. “Yes.”

 Pomegranate, he thinks. She tastes of pomegranates. That sudden thought is enough to see his blood burn with the sheer need to fuck, and Brienne has to go; the bus is in danger of calling forth the whole bloody village by this point. So he spins Brienne about in place, gently shoving her towards the door and out of it. With a final glance and a small smile, Brienne starts padding her way down to the ground floor. Jaime is about to close the door and deal with his protesting cock, when he sees Walda gaping up at him from the courtyard.

 Naturally, Jaime can see no other option than brazening it out. “You’re not leaving, are you, Walda?”

 Her initial surprise morphs into a pleasant, airy smile. “No. I stay for thirty days every year. I always wave to those who go.” The smile becomes quite sweetly arch. “Warm this morning, isn’t it?”

 “I’d say so,” Jaime replies, as nonchalantly as he is able, but he finds himself being ignored anyway, as Walda grabs a newly descended Brienne by the arm and starts quietly asking what seem to be a number of pertinent questions in a voice too quiet for him to hear.

 “No, we didn't!" Brienne says and looks up in alarm. “Jaime!”

 He waves at her, carefree, and shuts himself away as the two women go into the archway beneath. Jaime’s immediate plans shift and he pulls his swimming shorts out of the case, hopping awkwardly into them as he heads for the balcony door. On impulse, he picks up his phone from near the kettle and goes outside as swiftly as he can, staring over to ground level. On the street outside, the pink coach has fallen blessedly silent, and in a seat to the rear, Tyrion is sitting, grinning up at him. Jaime rolls his eyes as his brother wiggles his little finger rather too pointedly in his direction. There being children in clear view, Jaime feels unable to reply in what he would consider the proper fashion, so he turns his phone on. The tinkling melody catches Brienne’s attention as she boards the coach, and she looks at him too. “Later,” Jaime mouths, and she smiles softly, ducking her head and blushing still, as she disappears from view.

 Jaime sees his phone has 62 notifications, not one of which he wants to see, and without a second thought, he deletes them en masse, the sound of paper being screwed up and thrown into a metallic bin quite cathartic. He sends a quick message to Tyrion.

_Leave her alone._

The coach rumbles into shuddering life, and begins to move off, though Tyrion seems to receive his plea as it does, because he nods and waves, if a touch too jauntily. Jaime and Walda watch the bus go around the corner, and Jaime tells Walda he’ll see her in a while before he goes back indoors.

 He throws himself onto the nearest bed, and his phone chirps as he does so. It’s Tyrion.

  _If you insist. Funsucker._

 Jaime stares up and off to one side, at the slow beating of the fan blades above what was, until very recently, his brother's sleeping place. He rolls from his own and drops underneath the slightly cooler air. Thinking.

  _I'm serious, Tyrion. Don't. Please._ Jaime taps at the screen and pauses, before adding an insult. It would be strange if he didn't. _You little shit._

He sends the message, and finds himself waiting in this bare-bones place for an answer, even if what he really wants to do is pull his shorts down and deal with his damned cock. Yet despite what he thinks of, and wants to do with a long-limbed woman with no idea of her abundant charms being foremost in his head, he would rather know first that she will not be subjected to Tyrion’s occasional tendency to blunt crudeness.

 Tyrion doesn’t make him wait long for reassurance. _I like her, Jaime. Dialing back the douche. And is that any way to address your employer? Who just gave you more time off? So you can shag? You ARE going to shag her, right?_

That makes Jaime laugh, even if he has no intention of giving Tyrion an actual answer. The outrageous way his brother can verbally twist the word 'shag' is enough. He sighs contentedly under the fan and types out an alternative reply. _It really is warming up this morning. Enjoy your journey to the airport in the deathtrappy tin can with no aircon, dear brother._

It takes less than a minute for Tyrion to react. _Fuck off, you lanky streak of piss. You're fired. :D_

As his brother tells him that at least once a week, Jaime is unconcerned, and sends one last message. _Safe journey, shortround. :)_

Brienne’s trip to the airport having been rendered less troublesome, as Jaime has no doubt Tyrion would rib her mercilessly all the way if his brain wasn’t yanked out of its traditional place circling the sewers, he turns his phone off again, his having failed to ask Brienne for her number only just now dawning on him. It isn’t that much of a problem, as he knows she will be back in the early afternoon. So once he has dealt with the pressing problem of his need, a few short thrusts into his curled fingers and the faint taste of pomegranate on his lips enough to bring a gasping relief, Jaime wipes himself clean and simply tries to sleep for a time.

 Yet after an hour or two, he gives up, his thoughts plagued in the best possible way by Brienne, the warmth spilling in through the balcony door getting ever more stifling. Jaime decides to take a walk, so he goes down to the small market, which is at its most hectic at this earlier time of day. Spotting a stall stocked with snacks, crowned with, of all things, a _green_ and white striped canopy, he stops to buys an assortment of foods that Brienne will likely deem unhealthy at first sight. In deference to her stricter preferences, he grabs a bag of dried fruits before paying.

 He goes into a small pharmacy, only intending to stop there briefly. However, he ends up staring at the condom stand as if hypnotized for an age. It hasn’t exactly been forever since he last bought them, yet the increase in the variety of colours, flavours and textures available seems extreme. After frowning at a pack which are apparently glow-in-the-dark for a while, trying to work out why somebody would even want that ‘feature’ in the first place, he decides to stick with a brand he knows.

 Then he heads for the beach and Barsena’s, accepting a dose of good-natured teasing about his not having left, alongside a glass of ice-cold water and some eggs on toast; his request for which is met with a resigned sigh by Harghaz, who hardly considers that a culinary challenge. Even in his customary place next to the trellis in the shade, Jaime is sweltering, certain that this is going to be the hottest day since he arrived. He fishes out his phone from his pocket and turns it on again, intending to see how Tyrion is coping, but he finds his brother has been sending him messages already, a multitude of short missives which boil down to his being ‘fucking melting’ on Sunshine Apartments’ elderly bus. Jaime replies with less of the dry humour he tends to adopt with his brother, concerned not only for him. Tyrion knows it too, and even seems to share it, saying that he’ll be in the airport, soon enough.

  _But you best have a cool shower waiting for B. She’s red as a berry._

Jaime takes the advice with appreciation of the kindness meant, and finishes his meal, though to be frank, just eating is hard work. When done, he makes his way back to the apartments. The warmth is so intense that the asphalt feels lightly tacky on the soles of his shoes, the heat haze further up the road dancing like steam from a boiled pot.

 He ducks into the cooler air of Grey’s training centre for a moment's relief, only to find himself in the midst of a group of elderly women, all battering a number of punch bags with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Most notable is Arlan's wife, who is giving the equipment all seven of the merry hells. Grey notices his arrival and comes over, his polite smile as effusive as he ever seems to get. “This is a closed session, Jaime,” he advises, “though it is good to see you have remained in Ghirash. There are open sessions this evening and tomorrow afternoon.”

 Jaime can understand Grey’s quiet reluctance to have him stay. His conviction hangs heavy in the air for a moment, unspoken, but Jaime holds no grudge for it, understanding that there are some times when he will never be legally trusted in public places, no matter the lack of actual threat from him. He heads back out after saying, “It’ll probably be tomorrow then.”

 Grey actually grins at that, knowing full well what that means, and returns to his charges after a quick wave.

Sunshine Apartments is just next door, only separated from Grey's home by a narrow lane, so Jaime walks around to the archway and in. There is, however nothing to do in 3A, and no amount of attempting to sleep works. Time slows to thick molasses pouring from the back of a spoon, and in the end he deems it a lost cause, choosing to make use of the key Brienne had left behind. He grabs the bag of snacks and throws some clean shorts in on top, also fetching a toothbrush from the small bathroom and abandoning 3A for 1E. Walda is sunning herself in a deckchair in the yard, reading a cookery book. She places it on her lap and lifts the brim of her yellow sunhat with a prim smile. “I see you found your clothes, Jaime,” she says, and he can’t tell whether she thinks this a good or a bad thing.

 “I’ve even got extra shorts,” he grins as he unlocks the door.

 “I’m very pleased for both of you,” Walda says warmly then, returning her attention to her recipes, though she quietly adds, "Please don't hurt her, Jaime. She's a wonderful girl."

 "I know," he replies, in parting. "And how is it that no-one ever worries about her hurting me?"

 "As if," Walda snorts, stroking a large picture of an elaborately crusted pie.

 They exchange a final, quick smile and Jaime steps into Brienne’s apartment, taking in everything he had missed during his last visit. How he hadn’t noticed the size of her bed is both a shock and nothing of the sort. It looks to have been ordered especially for her use, when she comes to stay, and sits lengthways against the wall, with both a headboard and footboard to keep the bedding contained. It must be a good seven and a half feet long, is quite wide, and he almost laughs out loud as the thin coverlet seems to smack him visually over the head.

 “Blue and white gingham? How could I expect anything else?”

 All in all, 1E has a much more lived in feel, with a small mug tree on the side, a new-looking rag rug on the floor and a neat pile of a half dozen or so books stacked on top of the drawers. It isn’t much, Jaime thinks as he deposits his bag on the chair he definitely does remember, but it is enough to illustrate not only how little free time Brienne has here, but what she does with it.

 The bathroom is very similar to that in 3A, though the shower tray is larger, and Jaime discovers Brienne’s toothbrush sitting in a plain white mug. It is the oddest feeling, dropping his in next to hers, but he thinks Brienne won’t mind. He stands and stares at them. As a free adult, he’s never shared a bathroom with anyone but his brother, and rarely enough then, given their normal style of travel. There is something momentous in such a nothing gesture. He doesn’t dwell for too long though; firmly reminding himself that whatever is beginning will likely only last for ten days.

 His move, such as it was, pretty much complete, Jaime decides to take advantage of the large bed, stripping down to his jersey shorts, picking up a book and lying down, only then understanding just how comfortable it is. He hums happily as he settles in, realizing that he has inadvertently chosen the dry tome Brienne was reading in the laundry room.

 It at least gives him something to do though, and it isn’t long until he sees that it isn’t so terribly dull. There are a couple of chapters dedicated to the battles that raged from the Gift to the Neck as people fought over land and resources after the Wall fell, and there are quite the number of sites showing evidence of conflict in areas he hadn’t ever been aware ever saw it. Jaime stands and looks about, finding a spiral notepad and pen on the side by the kettle. He doesn’t want to pry any further than he already has, so he tears a wad of blank pages from the back of the pad and goes back to the bed, checking his phone on the way. He’s missed a message from Tyrion.

  _Traffic wasn’t too bad. Got here after only a few hours. Now I have champagne! Lady Long Legs is on her way back to you._

Jaime doesn’t bother responding to his brother’s comment on Brienne, which is not actually wrong, and sends a question instead. _Have you ever heard of a post-Wall battle at Ramsgate?_

_Just post-Wall? No. Why?_

They fall into a lengthy exchange of messages, resulting in Tyrion asking Jaime to get as much information from Brienne’s book as possible. Jaime has little else to do until she returns, so he agrees. Technically, he guesses he could just take pictures of the relevant sections of text, but ever since his arm had healed, Tyrion has called the decline in Jaime’s penmanship an ‘irritating waste of a bloody expensive education’; his view of Jaime’s mildly hampered abilities skewed by a lifetime of his own, far greater, disadvantage. His concern had pretty much evaporated once he was assured that Jaime would survive in Harrenhal. For that alone, Jaime thinks it worth going through the trouble of collating handwritten notes. He might even send them to Tyrion in the mail. Jaime discards the idea of using a trained raven almost as soon as it forms with a low chuckle, turning back to the book.

 How long he works for, he could not say, but whereas Tyrion would doubtless scour all of the books for any information he could find, Jaime tires after a few chapters, the oppressive heat and the small size of the text threatening to stir up a cutting headache. It can’t be too long before Brienne returns to Sunshine Apartments, so Jaime decides to stop his research and rest for a short time; but not before making a bookmark of his own to place inside the red cover, a torn piece of the paper onto which he scribbles a list, beginning with _‘That heel thing.’_ He tucks it in the relevant place with a soft grin, and puts the book back where it was, making sure the door is unlocked, only then resting fully on the mattress.

 This time, sleep comes quickly, and Jaime is brought back from it by the sound of people arriving, though it is apparent as soon as he wakes that the light filtering in through the window is that of late, not early or mid-afternoon. One voice amongst many is recognizable to him.

 If there is something perverse in his growing hard at the mere sound of Brienne talking, muffled by the door, Jaime doesn’t care. He rises from the bed, straightening up his skewed undershorts and waits for her to come in. He actually shuffles nervously from foot to foot, not a thing he can ever remember doing before in his whole life. It seems to take forever, hidden conversations muted, but not without hints of stress.

 Yet eventually, she comes in, and Brienne shuts the door firmly, leaning on it as if to keep a ravening horde at bay. She is obviously exhausted and flushed with the heat she has had to endure, but she simply looks at him. “Please. Jaime.”

 He walks to her, but as he draws closer she steps to meet him, pulling him against her and twisting them both until she hits the wall with a thump. She runs her left hand up from his waist to his face. _“Please.”_

 Her gaze is dark, her skin flushed and every line of her screaming of a need that Jaime is feeling no less himself. The very last remnants of sleep are torn from him when all pretence of delicacy is shed by Brienne in the face of this sheer, shared want. With no sign of her vulnerability or shyness, she reaches into his shorts, and if the stroking that follows is inexpert, Jaime still finds his heart beating like a drum, especially as she again says, “Please.”

 All sense of reason leaves him, the only thing that matters now is the feel of her. He scrabbles under her skirt to tug at her smallclothes, sweeping them down over her thighs. Brienne does the same with his even while she shimmies slightly in place, trying to kick hers off entirely. One foot comes free with a ping of elastic and Jaime only gets a single moment of exploring soft, slick folds before his hand is pushed away. “Please, Jaime.” Her voice breaks as she says his name and she draws him yet closer, positioning the tip of him where his fingers just were so briefly.

 The heat of her is maddening, and Jaime can only respond in one way, lifting one of her legs, resting her thigh comfortably above his hip, in the crook of his elbow, and driving into her, nearly growling, “Yes, Brienne.”

 He struggles to get all the way in, the grip of her is so tight, but long fingers pull at him, taking him in yet further even as Brienne slumps slightly against him with a sharp cry, little gasps following it, her face burrowing into his hair. Jaime can feel the weight of her, the heat of her, but daren’t move. He shakes in his place, fighting the urge to fuck for all he’s worth, scared she is hurt. But then she raises her head again, reaching out along the wall to her left to steady them both. When she lifts her hanging calf to wrap around his back and she smiles, and it is the brightest thing he’s ever seen. “Yes,” she whispers, with such warmth that it sings through Jaime.

 Then they move, in time, and if Jaime had guessed just the night before that this would be good, he was wrong. It’s perfect. They just seem to fit. Jaime kisses her mouth, her jaw, her neck, tasting the saltiness on her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest against his matched by soft exhalations of the word ‘yes’ into the air about them. Each stroke into her feels like forever and not long enough.

 Yet it builds too quickly into too much, so he forces himself to another grudging stop. But if he thinks this is happening with too much haste, Brienne clearly doesn’t, her eyes wide with disappointment right in front of his. Jaime can feel her, twitching around him inside, and she lifts her hand from his thigh, where she had him in a grip so tight he knows he might bruise, slipping it over her hip and between them, only to shyly halt its progress.

 Jaime simply laughs and kisses her. “Yes,” he says in encouragement, and she does, slamming her eyes shut to kiss him back with a contented sigh that soon turns into a deep moan, only a few seconds of work from her fingers seemingly enough see her falling into the sweetest pieces. Jaime wants this, _this_ , and so he moves in her again, not even trying to stop the wave of bliss that cracks through him then like a whip, blinding in its intensity.

 He comes back to himself with his forehead pressed into the juncture of her head and neck, his breath rasping. Brienne is all soft, happy sighs about him, and if their failing to collapse onto the floor is some sort of pure luck, Jaime isn't going to leave it to chance any more, straightening up and holding them in place as they gather their voices.

 His arrives first, a low hum. “Hello,” he whispers, smiling against her chin.

 Brienne’s smile is a more tentative attempt at one, as she comes back to herself. “Hello,” she says nervously, her eyes suddenly navigating their way to everywhere but at him.

 “Brienne,” Jaime says lazily, “this is fine. I think we should celebrate this way whenever you walk into a room.”

 That seems to cut through whatever embarrassment she is finding a way to cook up and Brienne laughs softly, still holding his hips close, cradling him inside, and though he is spent, Jaime feels almost drugged by the continuing soft flicker of her about him. She looks at him then, languidly, tiredly, and shakes her head. “It was such a bad day. And through it all, I could only think of you. Inside me. _All day._ ” She colours more, and deeply, at that quiet admission, though Jaime thinks it the best thing to hear in the world.

 "Then we were of like mind. Though in my head, it might have lasted longer,” Jaime grins. “You quite caught me by surprise, Miss Tarth.”

 “I caught myself by surprise!” Brienne bursts out, finally letting go of the wall and picking unhappily at her shirt. “I didn’t even shower first. I smell. What must you think of me?”

 “That I hadn’t noticed. That you can shower now?” Jaime pulls out of her with a low groan that seems to rumble through them both. “Possibly with me?” he adds, his voice strained.

 She smiles at him then, only to shudder in obvious discomfort as she drops her foot to the floor and peels herself away from the wall. Jaime curses himself for a blind fool the moment he catches sight of the back of her neck, the violent redness there giving him a moment of disquiet as he thinks that what has just happened shouldn’t have at all. “Brienne, are you sunsick?”

 As if sensing his sudden doubt, Brienne just runs her fingers across his right cheek with fondness. “No, Jaime. Just sun _burned_.” She pulls doggedly at the two hair bands keeping her plait in check then, wincing while the one nearest to her scalp makes its lengthy, interrupted bid for freedom. “The coach broke down halfway here,” she explains, heading off into the bathroom, dragging her feet. “We had to wait two hours for a mechanic, who wrote it off on the spot, then another hour for a replacement. I was used as a sun shade by an elderly guest.”

 Jaime follows her as she explains the delay in her return, though he is a touch delayed himself by his shorts resting about his ankles nearly tripping him over onto his arse, so he kicks them off. “That would explain the complaining,” he offers with some sympathy, leaning against the door jamb and watching her.

 “Oh, the complaining!” Brienne smiles while she runs her fingers repeatedly through her plait, loosening it. “I've always thought myself patient, but I have no idea how Missy can stand doing this job for most of the year. I think it would drive me insane. But she said I could rest for a while, this evening. I thought that was kind of her.”

 “It is,” Jaime agrees. “But don’t you think that two nights off in a row is pushing it? Next you’ll be asking for _wages_.”

 Brienne steers her eyes steadily inwards ‘til she is staring at the tip of her nose and briefly pokes her tongue out at him, only to free the smallest of grins as she lets her hair fall about her shoulders.

 And that is the moment that changes everything for Jaime. For good. It is as if a wailing chasm opens up in his head, and half of what he'd convinced himself he believed over the years leaps into it in silence, and without a moment of protest. It isn’t just that he likes Brienne, or admires her tiresome goodness, or even that he simply wants to fuck her until neither of them can move, though all of those are true. And he isn't made different by it, either; but he feels like he has been sandblasted bare, the elaborate lies he's told himself for so long stripped away, nothing left in him but the core of himself.

 Brienne is standing there, in that unflattering uniform, her mouth too wide and her teeth too big, with light frown lines rising up on her forehead and a slightly wonky nose. At the end of admittedly long legs her smallclothes rest on top of her neatly laced right plimsoll, and he tries to ignore those damned socks, lifting his gaze to take in her hair, which right now could just be the most outlandish thing about her. Dropping like flat curtains to the sides of her jaw, it then branches out into a multitude of crinkle-cut, frizzy rat-tails, the originally damp plait having done its work, and he can’t work out quite how she has contrived to be the owner of hair that is both fine and dry as straw. Yet her eyes are stunning and warm, and if her mouth seems all wrong, the smile on it never approaches it, when it makes an appearance. Though it is ebbing now, his internal scramble to appear as anything other than a dumbstruck idiot having taken too long.

 "What is it, Jaime?" Brienne asks, with a touch of concern.

  _I am completely in love with you._

"Nothing," Jaime lies, and steps into the shower, turning it on and adjusting the temperature. "We should get you in here though," he suggests, grimacing as the finest touch sees the spray turn too hot. A move to counter it sees it run too cold and Jaime flinches. "This isn't easy, is it?"

 "No," he hears Brienne reply, her voice a pleasant thrum cutting through the noise of the shower. The sound of shoelaces being undone and her plimsolls being kicked off follows soon after.

 Jaime concentrates until he feels the stream of water is just lukewarm enough. "That should do it," he says, looking at her. "Come on in, Brienne."

 Brienne starts to undo her shirt, but her hands tremble to a dead stop after just a few buttons. And if Jaime thinks it strange that the woman who just initiated one of the more intensely sexual experiences of his whole life is finding it difficult to simply take her clothes off in front of him, the reasons are not exactly hard to find, and he can't blame her for it. "Do you have another one of those uniforms?" he asks.

 She nods nervously.

 Jaime reaches out through the pouring water. "Then come _in_." Brienne grasps his hand immediately, though it is shaking, even before he adds more. "Fair warning, Brienne. If anything interesting happens in here, the skirt, at the very least, is gone." She gapes at him then, uncertain, but he just grins. "It sounded like plastic bags rubbing together out there. Can you imagine how horrifying it would be in here?"

 She huffs then, a soft laughter married to a relaxation that Jaime can almost see washing through her frame. With a short nod and a deep breath she moves in, and in just a second or two she is wrapped around him, an envelope of Brienne; her arms laced about his waist and her face tucked low, and shyly, into Jaime's neck. She lets out a gentle sigh of relief onto his skin as the water washes over her, and Jaime can feel himself smile at it, unseen, so widely and stupidly it makes his cheeks ache as he does so. He does little else, just raising his arms around her and draping them over her shoulders, even with a part of his mind screaming at him that this is futile.  And that in her knowing him, they cannot be, that she can't possibly want him for anything more than the next ten days. And his mind scatters.

 White tiles have stalked his thoughts throughout his adult life; they are the norm for many, maybe, but for him always a reminder of what he did, and what it cost him. Aerys had been standing in a white, classically-themed, marble-clad shower room when his madness wholly overtook him in front of Jaime, his body doubled over as he spilled out his rage with pounding fists and bleeding knuckles, roaring out just how badly he wanted to treat others, how badly he already had, and Jaime felt he had to do something, whatever the cost. His own face, pressed into wide, white floor tiles, when he, as the pretty young prisoner, had his forearm broken, the sharp drop of a heavy foot making it eminently foldable, his screams only interrupted by the scurrying guards, initially uncaring who it was they hit with black batons. In the end, they got to him just in time, when the fight in him was lost. It could have been far worse, all told.

 But now, in this white tiled room, there is a peace in him. Not the simple acceptance of what has gone, but of what could be, if only she will want it. Brienne is draped about him, and he wants her. Not just now, but for the rest of his life. He knows that. But surely it is too much to expect her to feel the same way?

 Given that he has a vague understanding that fucking is not a good lead-in to a declaration of undying love, and one that may prove unwelcome, Jaime feels a touch bereft. He doesn't know what to do. So after a while, he laughs instead, lifting the hem of her soaked skirt upwards, which really does sound dreadful, when it is so heavy with water. "Told you so," he says, and she huffs her amusement into his neck.

 If what came before was a storm of sudden sensation, seeming to shock and overwhelm them both, for around the next hour things are much more delicate, desperation giving way to curiosity.

 Small, affectionate touches lead to an ever growing pile of clothes lumped together, dropped and kicked away into a sodden heap in the corner of the shower tray. If Brienne was initially the one in greater need, the most forthright, she is now hesitant, incredibly, impossibly gentle as she explores him. This feels more like her, though Jaime wonders, as she pauses again and again in her movements, if this removal of her shell, the showing of her skin, is something that she fears. That he will not want her, if he sees her.

 He already knows that this is far from true, so he does his best to prove otherwise, though it is only as he makes the attempt that he fully understands how very poor his own experience has been. A lifetime of hurried, hidden sex, based on a flawed knowledge of what he wanted, of what beauty is, of what one woman told him he 'magnificently' was, has left him fumbling in this field of the unknown. So it turns out that he is a teenager, in a poorly written book, after all.

 Yet, tired though she is, Brienne sees it, and if they end up discovering each other in a different way, slowly folding themselves lower, to their knees and then onto their sides, pressed close together and desperately uncomfortably on hard ceramic in a cramped space as water pours down on them, it doesn't matter. If one hand covers another to help them find the right place, the right beat of need in each of them, in their turn, it is no bad thing.

 There are no fireworks in this. It is physically awkward and in the wrong place and full of thought and nothing that Jaime would ever have believed he wanted. But as he falls apart under the ministrations of her, having been started by himself after a long spell of simple playing at her softly spoken request, feeling her fingers easing their way in between his, throwing them off gently, one at a time, as she found his pace and what he needs, all he can see is her, wanting to know him.

 He can't even verbalize how much that means, as she gently washes the mess on his stomach away with a few sweeps of her right palm, under the cool water.

 So in his turn he plays with her, feeling how warm she is. Even the vast number of inches of the inside of her thighs, leading up to where he most wants to be, feel superheated, absurdly so, and he wants her. How can it be that one so unworldly, so unattractive, can tip all that he has ever known on its head?

 He doesn't care, he realizes. So he slides his finger up, between her legs, feeling for wetness and warmth and home.

 "What do you want, Brienne?"

 She doesn't even look at him. She can't. He knows it. It doesn't matter.

 Instead, she repays him in kind, in a manner of speaking. She grasps his right hand, which he can barely believe, but she does, folding it carefully over her own and settling his fingers over hers, a silent message to follow. So he does, and it is slow and tenuous, the pleasure she eventually finds not vast, he thinks, told only in a series of short gasps in his ear and the telling twitches inside her and of her stomach at his side.

 They end up in a tangle of limbs in the bottom of the shower tray, though their feet are flung far out of it. If there has been laughter and warmth, not least when Jaime had apologized to Myranda for any distress caused by his previously neglectful manners, it begins to drain from Brienne as they settle into place on cool stone and tile. She rests against him in the quiet, the water landing, in the main, on her back and shoulders, and he can't help but hear when her teeth start to chatter.

 "Are you getting cold?" he asks. Brienne nods slowly. "Well, then," Jaime says, "How about we aim for something more conventional? Your bed is extremely comfortable, I've noticed."

 Brienne looks at him chidingly as she stands unsteadily, pulling him up with her. They quickly wash again, and in less than a minute, Jaime is offering her the largest towel. "You're not going to make me fight you for it this time, are you?" she yawns, even as he wraps it around her.

 "No," he says, kissing the back of her shoulder as she turns about. Her neck looks unbelievably sore, and he has noticed that her triceps and calves are pink too, if less livid. "Do you have some kind of lotion for this?" he asks, not knowing what it would be, as he has never needed anything of the sort.

 "I have aftersun," Brienne says, padding out into the main room and towards the drawers there. She pauses, and then picks up the small black box he'd left there, waving it at him.

 “Ah. Yes. I bought condoms,” Jaime mutters, caught by sharp laughter as his mind catches up with recent events and he realizes he might have mentioned them a little late in proceedings.

 Brienne puts the box back down and wraps her arms around him. He can feel her laughing with him, certainly more than he hears it, though then her mouth is by his ear. “Jaime,” she whispers, “it’s okay. I’m safe, and I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t known we were both clean. You told me about the sheep dip, remember?”

 “So I did,” Jaime says, thankful that an absurd, if brief, argument during their morning swim the day before that he’d swiftly lost, comparing the humiliations of medical treatment for men and women, saw him confess that a battery of clean test results a few years back hadn’t wholly diminished the outlandish urge to spend some time bathing like a farm animal for a spell, just in case. He’d never acted on it, but it was a close run thing at one point. He turns his face to hers. “I’m glad one of us was thinking like an adult.”

 “At least you tried,” she smiles and turns away again, opening a top drawer and retrieving a small bottle. She twists her hair into a long rope in a way now very familiar to Jaime, and drapes it over her collarbone.

 "I'll do that," Jaime says, taking the green bottle. He squeezes some pale gel onto his fingers and starts to rub it gently into her neck. Brienne hums contentedly, dropping her head forwards. "Better than sex, is it?" he teases.

 "You stop that," Brienne smiles, only to jump slightly in her place as his hands move elsewhere. "Oh! I didn't know about my arms!" she says, twisting about to see the redness on the back of them.

 "And your legs too," Jaime says. "I have to say, Miss Tarth, your approach to tanning seems perilous."

 "And I won't tan, either," she sighs, unconsciously kicking that heel of hers out and grimacing down at her calf. Jaime laughs and leans in, an eyebrow at full mast as she groans. "In a week, it'll flake off hideously, and then I'll be pale again. Just with more freckles." She looks at Jaime. "What?"

 He bites his lip and crouches, softly tapping at the side of her ankle. Brienne almost stands to military attention then, with an embarrassed mumble he can't quite make out. It doesn't take Jaime long to work in the aftersun, trying not to dawdle, though there are many reasons he can think of to linger. Instead, he stands, depositing the bottle back in the drawer and tipping his head at the pile of books. "Where did you get the one you were reading in the laundry, Brienne?"

 "I bought it when I was working on my dissertation," she says. "I realized that a lot of the older information about that period was being lost in the scramble for digitization." She shrugs and laughs softly. "I spent a good three months spending every spare moment digging through every old bookshop in King's Landing for those that might slip through the net."

 "How many did you find?"

 "Just shy of forty, all told," she says, opening a lower drawer. "I was dusty for the whole time."

 The thought of her sneezing her way through the bookshelves of Binder's Alley for so long is unremittingly adorable. "I'd best keep that from Tyrion." At her quizzical glance, he just warns her, "Otherwise, when you get home, you'll find you already have a very short squatter. He has any number of skills my father would rather weren't made public. Breaking and entering might be one of them. At least I'd guess so, from the number of times he's woken me up at home by pouring cold water over me. I've never given him a bloody key."

 "I see," Brienne says, aiming for seriousness, yet unable to hide her warmth whilst she watches him climb easily under her cover and shuffle over towards the wall. "He needn't bother. I can send him digital copies of them, if he thinks they'll be useful." A frown flickers over her features. "Aren't you going to dry yourself, Jaime?"

 "I'm almost dry _now_ ," he tells her. "It's not my fault this place is about ten feet away from the surface of the sun." He pats at the empty space next to him, in her bed. "Are you coming in?"

 "In a minute," she says, twisting back to the drawers and pulling out some clothes.

 "You're getting dressed again, Brienne? I thought we were past that."

 "We are, I think. I hope," she says, her cheeks colouring a touch as she sheds her towel and almost dives into a black tank top, heedless of it leaving seventeen acres of leg and a really quite shapely arse bare. No sooner is dark cotton vaguely in place though, than she is stepping into the longest flannelette pyjama bottoms Jaime has ever seen, and she is again hidden as she turns back to him, picking up the towel once more, and rubbing it at the ends of her wet hair. "But Missy will be gone in a while," she says, walking slowly to the bed, "and the first night of new visitors always sees people knocking. 'My kettle doesn't work'," she close to sing-songs, only then to say, quite flatly, "The button needs to be pushed up, not down. There are only two ways it can go. 'My shower is either too hot or too cold!'" Jaime laughs at this one, as Brienne's shins bump lightly against the bedframe, she drops the towel over the nearest bedpost and she stares down at him, with a resolute sigh. "So is _mine_. Yet I still have to go and help them."

 Only now is Jaime starting to see how privileged he is to have seen this side of her in any way, let alone the wider-ranging forms he has somehow stumbled into witnessing, over the course of his stay. The woman he met on his first day here was so bent on serving her father's friend that she was dull to him, but he likes to think that this is the Brienne who was always hidden underneath; not incapable of humour, but simply unused to showing it. To sharing it. "That's a shocking burden, Brienne. So. How _do_ they cope when you're not here?"

 "They put up a sign to tell guests to go next door, to Missy and Grey's."

 "Can't we do that now?"

 "No!" Brienne protests. "She only has two days of her leave left. I couldn't do that to her!"

 Jaime hoists himself up onto his elbows and gives her his most 'like-I-give-a-single-damn' stare. "So she gets around five or six weeks off in the high season, courtesy of you, and those other three weeks you told me about in the low season, when this place is closed. Tell me, Brienne, just how many whole weeks do you get for yourself, every year?"

 Brienne drops to edge of the bed, sitting nervously as she stammers out, "Two, Jaime, but -"

 "But what, Brienne?" Jaime asks. "Just how much of yourself do you think you have to give?" He is suddenly becoming angry for her. She has told him enough of her actual work to be aware of how much free time she fritters away in the name of education, and as she shifts about next to him on the mattress, her right knee swinging around and brushing against the outside of his arm, he wants her not to be so terribly sunburned. Not to be worried about her father's friend, or for Missy, and sure as hells not for any fool who can't work an electric fucking kettle.

 Brienne reaches out to Jaime, resting her hand on his wrist. "What do you think this is, Jaime? Some kind of outlandish quest for honour? Like in the old tales?"

 "Don't be stupid, Brienne. You're not that."

 "I know," she spits out, shaking her head fiercely. "Jaime, Lennart is dying. I thought that was obvious. Do you think Missy and Grey get a free ride when Sunshine Apartments is closed, in the low season? They don't. They still have to make sure he is washed and fed, and they keep him company too. Of course I come and help, when I can. I love him, and them too. How can I not? Don't judge me for that, because I will come here, for as long as I am needed." She takes a deep breath. "Their work is harder than mine, Jaime. They are good people."

 Her eyes are beacons of blasted truth, and he believes her, though he is furious with himself for not understanding why she always swims at dawn here. Even before she's had to deal with guests, she has been tending to the physical needs of Lennart, and he was just too blind to see it. "Will Missy make sure Lennart is settled before she leaves for the night?"

 Brienne nods. "She said she didn't mind."

 "You are too fucking good, do you know that?"

 "I don't care. Do you know that?"

 They get close to glaring at each other for a moment, and Jaime is shocked that his resolve in this is the weaker. There are a thousand feet of her, looming over him, despite her being sat next to him, and his gaze is deflected to her knee, which is almost jammed up into his armpit at this point.

 And then he notices something. "Brienne, am I on your pyjamas?"

 "No!" she says, pulling both her legs up until her knees almost hit her chin, wriggling her toes on the bedsheet. "No, you are _not._ "

 Jaime traces the fingers of his weaker, dominant hand over her thigh and the unbelievably worn and soft material there. "I would swear that is the ancient Lannister sigil. There," he points, "and here too."

 She peers down at him, scowling. "It is, but all the others are there as well." If he just shrugs, stretching his arms out comfortably, his point made, Brienne shakes her head. "I'm serious, Jaime!" She rests her chin on her knees and fiddles with the threadbare material at her ankle, twisting it around for him to see. "Look, here's the older sigil for Tarth. It's much better than the modern, civic one." She frowns at Jaime. "Whoever heard of a sapphire tree? Now that's stupid."

 Her outrage at the dismal treatment of her own heritage by the more recent incumbents of the Sapphire Isle is justified, even if only because Jaime's having to scrawl out a stylized lion's head at Crakehall would have been infinitely more difficult, had he been from Tarth. Whoever designed the newest symbol for that small place had certainly not been aiming for simplicity, in the doing of it.

 He strokes her shin in sympathy, only then feeling thin seams, from an age of running repairs. "How old _are_ these, Brienne?"

 "Eight years," Brienne admits, looking at him as if she expects him to run in horror at the very thought. There is no need. They may be elderly, but they are undoubtedly clean and well loved. "Before I left for university, I went with my father to market at Evenfall for supplies. I was always mortified when I had to shop in the 'big and tall' menswear section at Rohanne's, because even then, nothing ever fit properly, so he had five pairs of these made for me as a gift."

 "Are they all still with us?" Jaime asks.

 "Four are," Brienne smiles. "One pair was just too weak to last very long. They kept tearing. I think the order was hurriedly filled. We saw the bolt of cloth on a market stall that day, and there wasn't that much of it to begin with. I was surprised they could get five pairs out of it, in the first place." She wraps her arms about her knees, sighing happily but tiredly. "Father wanted to encourage me academically. He blew out his knees at college himself." Brienne smiles. "He liked the old stories too."

 "He must've been pleased when you ended up switching to history."

 Brienne looks at him as if he is being absurd. "I did it because I was _injured_ , Jaime. Why would he have been happy about that?" She pats at his ribs in a tender kind of confusion. "Just what kind of family do you come from?"

 "A shambles of one?" Jaime offers. "Imagine normal. Then imagine as far away from that as you can run in a fucking week. That might be closer." If he is smiling wryly at this, Brienne is not, concern woven in moving freckles and wide lips as she frowns at him.

 Yet Jaime will not have the pity that seems to be building up a head of steam within her. Instead, he gestures at the mattress by his side. "Are you actually coming in or not?" Brienne nods, and slowly lays herself out next to him. As stiff as a board. He laughs. "You're going to have to do better than that, Brienne," he mutters, gathering her closer to his side, and lower too, her hair wet on the front of his shoulder, his arm resting against her back. He feels her legs curl in behind his right knee, her strength and velvet soft, time-worn flanelette making the oddest, but most welcome bedfellows he could ever imagine. "If it helps, I _will_ be here in the morning. And this is fairly new territory for me too," he admits, pressing a kiss to her brow.

 She lifts her head, her chin finding a place near his collarbone, featherlight, still not allowing herself to lean more than the weight of a songbird on him. "I suppose it would be," she says quietly, failing more than not to stifle another small yawn.

 And she looks at him then, her gaze sure and calm and accepting of everything. Of him. It is then that Jaime knows himself completely stolen. That it is only for now grates, and so Jaime tells the truth, even as he gently makes sure that the rope of hair dripping water onto his chest is fully free of her sore neck. "Brienne. I don't think another ten days will be enough."

 For a few seconds she stares at him, and he can't read her at all. But then a freckled cheek drops and nuzzles against his chest, as if to burrow in there. The simple sensation of the weight of her head as she relaxes against him is a tune he does not know, and had not known he'd ever needed, only heightened by the feel of a long arm brushing across his stomach, a hand coming to rest, cupping his hip.

 A slow breath is released and it washes over him.

 "Nor do I, Jaime," she says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue to this fic will be posted at 09.00 GMT tomorrow.


	11. Ten Days - Epilogue - Day Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own it not.
> 
> Time: Section one - 09.00 GMT. Sections two and three - 14.00 GMT, or thereabouts.

 

**TEN DAYS - EPILOGUE - DAY EIGHTEEN**

 Brienne flings her arms wildly out, just over the rigid piping of the firm mattress. It digs into both her forearms, but it doesn't hurt at all, and she lifts her head feebly, merely enough to see her own dark pink nipples dart hurriedly into the lower edges of her vision, and then back out of it. She smiles, then settling her head deeply from side to side into a comfortable, feather pillow, the base of her skull and the back of her neck still burning as cool cotton catches her. Her legs are restless, yet weak, under the sheet. She listens to the newly pouring water in the small room next to this one, and how it changes.

  _He is beautiful, even now. When I can't see him._

She can hear Jaime, and what he does.

 How the spill of water over him alters as it encounters soft hair, when shampoo is massaged through it, or how the rub of his hands against himself seems smoother after he has pulled the small bar of soap from the rickety plastic rack hanging precariously on the inside of glass that should be just a little clearer than it is. Brienne has never had the time to lend her studious attention to properly maintaining her own apartment in this complex, and she knows that once she is gone, she will get a chiding email or two from Missandei. Though she keeps it clean, the build-up of scale here can be horrifyingly quick, and Brienne had never found the will or the reason to fight it. Her work here often leaves her too tired to care for herself. Until this last week or so, she had every reason to believe that the state of her shower screen would never matter, in any case, as she and Missy would be the only ones to ever see it.

 How things have changed, she thinks, as the patter of her heartbeat finally slows. And yet they haven't. Not really. Neither she or Jaime have changed each other. Fundamentally, they are the same people they were just eighteen days ago, even if it seems like a lifetime, and no time at all. It only feels like their views of each other have shifted.

 Jaime begins to hum in the bathroom. It's an obvious attempt to copy a tune she often sings to herself, and she isn't too sure how pleased he is going to be when she finally tells him that it is the theme to 'Super-Duper Princess Ponies', a cartoon show she had adored when she was very young. He's been trying to get her to tell him what it is for days, but she was too embarrassed to own it. She hadn't even known he had heard her singing it in the first place. It could be that it has all gone too far now. She should probably remedy it, and soon. Brienne opens her mouth to speak, but shuts it again as he hits a rough spot, the tune going awry. She listens to his attempts to find the right path, discordant, slightly frustrated notes emerging whilst her mind wanders, if not very far. To him, and to the last few days.

 To waking up on her first day off in an age, finding a tray of breakfast and juice, and what can only be described as a declaration of love, if not one worded in what might be considered the traditional manner. Her cautious reply of, "Maybe?" was enough to see the breakfast hit the floor as other issues arose. Their dinner was to suffer the same fate that evening, when Brienne upgraded her reply, and they ended up eating boar stew at Barsena's just before dawn the following morning; the lady herself squealing with delight when she saw what was going on. With the best will in the world, they had sloped off towards the beach in the darkness intending to swim, come the daylight, but they were both ravenous by that stage, and so watched the dawn sitting beside each other on green plastic chairs, their bellies full and Brienne's head resting on Jaime's shoulder. They merely paddled in the shallows before going back to Sunshine Apartments.

 To quiet conversations in the night, about everything and very little at all. Even then, in the darkness, Jaime likes to tuck her hair behind her ears every so often, even if it doesn't need it. As of yet, she has no idea why. But then, he is still trying to hum 'Super-Duper Princess Ponies'.

 Brienne smiles at that, and about yesterday afternoon when, having hired a couple of mountain bikes to take a couple of the easier, shorter trails through the nearby canyons, they'd returned covered in dust and scrapes. Lennart started to fuss about them trying to kill themselves, but then Jaime simply took her hand. "Lennart, we weren't so much falling off our bikes, as each other." Her father's best friend had groaned at that, telling them that there were some things he simply didn't need to know, muttering about 'the despoiling of beautiful bloody landscapes' as he wheeled himself back into in his apartment. Not that his despair lasted long. He and Jaime had become very close, very quickly, and not just because of vaguely shared past experiences, on the second day after Jaime decided to stay.

 From the very first seconds that Jaime was allowed into apartment 1G, he had understood why Lennart so rarely lets anyone in at all. "You have a ceiling track? You won't be needing it for a little while, will you?" he'd asked, dropping into the chair hanging from it before he even got an answer. He then proceeded to take himself on a tour of Lennarts home, shouting out from the bathroom, "Fuck me, Lennart, it goes _into_ the shower? I bet you would've loved one of these for those heavier mornings, when you were younger!" If Brienne had been too horrified to even look at Lennart, a rare outburst of hooting laughter from the older man was enough to prove her wrong. From that moment on, even since Missy started working again, Jaime took the more personal aspects of Lennart's care upon himself. He told her that it was probably easier on everyone, except for the fact that it turns out he finds cutting other people's toenails awkward.

 Jaime’s wandering humming stops, bringing Brienne back to today. "Have you found your legs yet?" His voice echoes in the small bathroom, though not enough to hide the inevitable touch of smugness it carries with it.

 "I'm just about to find out," she replies, pulling herself up to sit. She spends a few seconds marvelling again at the oddness of finding this tender sort of soreness between her legs utterly pleasant and sweet, before rising to her feet. If there is a little unsteadiness there, she will not own up to it. It is not quite a lie. "You can shelve the comments about giant, two-legged, newly-born foals this time, Jaime," she calls out to him.

 "Pity," he says. "Am I losing my touch, already?"

 Brienne starts to make her way to the small bathroom, but heads to the door nearby instead when she sees that a small note has been pushed under it. She picks it up and smiles down at it as she joins Jaime. "I should say no, but I fear your ego hardly needs any more stroking."

 She places the scrap of paper carefully on the washstand and turns to look at Jaime, who is leaning his weight on his forearms, against the white tiles in front of him, just letting the spray of the shower sluice down his neck and back. And he _is_ beautiful, his face moving vaguely, but not fully, in her direction, his eyes closed and the smile on his lips unashamedly sinful. "But, Brienne. It turns out that you're so good at stroking."

 She steps into the shower behind Jaime, pausing uncertainly before wrapping her arms loosely about his waist, the jut of his hips and the feel of his firm stomach under her fingertips, though no longer quite new, as always a revelation. She bobs her head to kiss the hair slicked to the back of neck, eliciting a contented hum; only to knock her head on the metal shower fitting as she straightens up. She screws up her nose as water pours through her still sea-damp hair and over her face, and she feels more than hears Jaime laugh as he twists in her arms to see her.  His lips brush against the corner of Brienne's mouth. "Why, you serial water-hogger, Miss Tarth. What is this? The fourth time at least, surely?"

 Brienne shifts them a touch, so that the water is more evenly shared, running between them where it can as she blinks away the remnants of the torrent from her eyes. "I can't help it," she says, staring dolefully at the shower head. "It doesn't go any higher."

 "I know, Brienne," he says, brushing tangled tails of her hair back over her shoulder before looking into her eyes, all pretence gone, simply Jaime. "Are you alright?"

 She holds him tighter to her then, nuzzling at the side of his head, his neck. "I'm good."

 He does much the same, his reply muffled on the skin of her own neck. "Me, too." They fall into a soft stillness then, just holding each other as the water beats down on them, and though the pleasure Brienne had so recently experienced has ebbed, there is nothing she would do to change what is happening now, because this is _everything_.

 As if he has heard her thoughts, Jaime begins to speak. "This is it, Brienne."

"What, Jaime?" she asks, quietly.

 "I enjoy the sex," he says, his head popping up and bringing hers with it until they are nose to nose, his eyes bright with conviction," and I really _do_ enjoy the sex, love," he smiles, running a hand along the outside of a slightly quivering thigh, suddenly brought once more to a newly found, shared sensual life by this alone, "but you've given me something I've always wanted, though I don't think I knew it." Again, he buries his face into the unwieldy mass of her neck, his hand rising to stroke at her cheek and slipping down over neck and shoulder, travelling arm and around to her back. He gently squeezes her against him. "Just this."

 Her heart would break for both of them, if Brienne were not so happy now. If Jaime wasn't. "I always knew," she whispers into his sodden hair. "I just didn't think it would ever happen for me."

 His ribs shake against hers, and his mouth plays along her jaw until he is facing her, and he seems filled with joy as he says, "Yet here we are."

 Brienne nods. "So it would seem."

 Jaime kisses her long and slow, and though her eyes are shut, he is beautiful, her body willing him to go on, the sweet throbbing inside already building again. But she knows that time is a factor, so she lets go of him and pushes him softly away. "I should wash."

 "I know," Jaime tells her, waving the bar of soap, which he has somehow managed to conjure from the rack into his hand, in front of her. "After all, today would be a terrible one for you to walking about, reeking of seaweed."

 The change of tone, not to mention subject, makes her scowl, and Brienne knows it. "I do _not_ reek of seaweed."

 "I suppose not," Jaime agrees, reaching up with his right hand and fiddling with her hair, only for it to emerge with a tiny tendril of thin and spindly, purple-hued seaweed. He throws it out at the small bin without any care and misses it entirely. Brienne is hugely embarrassed, her hands flying to her head to seek out any more, but Jaime simply grins. "That's all there was, Brienne," he reassures her. "Believe, me, I got a very close look, earlier on."

 She goes red so quickly it is as if Jaime has just pulled down a window blind; Brienne can feel it happening. She waves at the wall, in the general direction of the bed. "But we...but _I_ -"

 "And wasn't it thoroughly enjoyable?" Jaime interrupts. "I certainly thought it was. You seemed to, as well."

 "But I -"

 "Brienne," Jaime says, lazily starting to rub the soap over the front of her shoulders, under the spray of warm water, "I was _joking_. Did it really seem like I was worried about a miniscule bit of seaweed?"

 "No," she concedes, her breath quickening as the bar of soap edges lower, a side-to-side song on her skin.

 But then it stops, if only briefly. "And I wasn't," he says, his voice flowing over her, warming her inside, his fingers slowly moving over her again then, ever lower.

 The sound of her gasping in front of another is still strange to her ears, and Jaime's smile is dark with the promise of more. But Brienne knows something he doesn't, and turns, resting her back against the wet tiles with an unhappy moan. "We have to stop," Brienne says, sighing in regret when she ceases his arm moving.

 "Why, Brienne?"

 She swings her face lazily about to the washstand. "We're getting the hurry-up. Walda left us a note."

 Jaime squints at the handwriting evident there, and he seems to silently agree with Brienne’s opinion, that it is amongst the floweriest ever seen, full of flourishes and unneeded curlicues. Then his attention becomes fully absorbed by another factor. He looks back up at her, curiously. “Is there glitter on it?”

 Brienne smiles, and she feels her mouth twitching in amusement as she kisses him. “She _is_ very excited.”

 “I know,” Jaime says, swiftly replying to her gesture in kind. “I was woken up in the middle of night by the scent of baking cupcakes.”

 "The ovens here are so tiny. I think she's using the ones in the two empty apartments, too."

 Jaime leans into her fully then, cat-like, the stubble on his chin scratching just below her ear. "So later, then?"

 "Yes. Later," Brienne promises, begs, only to slide her arms around his waist again, holding him near and finding his ear in turn. "But do you think we can stretch to another minute or so of this, before we get ready?"

 "This?" Jaime replies, simply relaxing against her, his hands sliding up her sides briefly before coming to rest, the pads of his thumbs gently sitting on the margins of one breast that he had kissed before any other part of her, and the other, which he profusely apologized to for being so rude as to ignore it, some days later.  Their cheeks touch, and though her eyes are not open, he is beautiful. "This is the most important thing in the world. We can always make time for _this_ , Brienne."

 

/-/-/-/-/

The precise clink of cutlery is the only thing interrupting the sullen silence that has descended over the table.

  _At least my breakfast won't be troubled by shouting this morning._

Tywin studies the two of his children who are currently 'gifting' him with their presence at Casterly. Cersei's rather rash accusations of previous days have been succeeded by cold, cutting glares, directed plainly at her brother over the heavily laden fruitbowl. Her fervent assertions that Tyrion had been the mastermind of Jaime's spurning of the invitation to her recent celebrations had been met with flat denials, and her protests at her resulting 'humiliation' countered with an unconcerned appraisal that that was all in her head. For once, Tywin entirely agrees with his youngest son. Cersei's anniversary party had gone swimmingly, both of her brothers' absence going completely unnoted by the simple expedient of the explanation that they were off travelling together. Tyrion, for his part, is slumped in his chair, eating a bowl of cereal that would normally only be considered food by eight-year-olds, smiling back at his sister in a manner that is equally sickly sweet.

 Cersei slams her fork down, and Tywin tries to smother a weary sigh as his hopes for some morning peace flee in the face of the oncoming storm. "Father. Make him _stop_."

 "You are adults, not schoolchildren. I think you should be capable of working out your differences. Though I would ask you not to do so in my presence."

 His pointed attempt at a plea goes unheard, as Cersei starts to wind herself up for an inevitable tirade. "He just won't listen! He won't see reason! Look at him, father. Look! He's sitting there, all smug at how well his shitty little plan worked out!" Tyrion isn't even paying attention at this point, a light beep from his phone seeing him absorbed in a message. Tywin doesn't care to remind him that he doesn't appreciate the use of new technology at the food table, for his son will never listen, and at least one of them is distracted from Cersei's rapidly increasing ire. "He did it on purpose," she accuses, picking up her fork and jabbing it towards her brother. "He knew it would embarrass me in front of our friends. This party was going to be the biggest thing to happen in our family this year and this vicious fucking troll ruined it!"

 Tywin opens his mouth, intending to remind her that there is one other upcoming event of some note, hoping it will puncture her metaphorical wheels a touch; but nothing comes out, as Tyrion starts to laugh, his phone gripped firmly in one hand. And what starts as a low chuckle quickly increases. He seems to only just have time to safely deposit his dish on the table before he is convulsed, almost hysterical with glee, his free hand banging at the arm of his chair. It takes him the better part of a minute to recover himself. "What is it?" Cersei spits. "Has another insignificant plot worked out for you? What is it this time, I wonder? Perhaps killing babies? I - "

 Tyrion stalls her rather overwrought dramatics with more laughter. "I could move heavens and earth before I could plan _this_ , dear sister," he manages to say, shaking his head in what seems to be sheer disbelief. Unease coils in Tywin's gut, though he says nothing, waiting for this to play out. His son lifts his phone. "But you must excuse me for a moment. This communication requires a swift reply." He begins to type out a message, his stubby fingers flashing over the device, speaking aloud as he does so. "'This is...the best timed...message in...history. You have... _no_ idea. Congratulations.'" He grins at Cersei, a mixture of maliciousness and outright joy in him as he touches the screen once more. "Send." Then he leans back, tapping his curls lightly against the chair, smiling in what can only be called pure relief.

 That takes the edge from Tywin's sudden unease somewhat, but there are too many variables in his son's quite deliberate obfuscation for him to relax. Yet if he is willing to wait, Cersei is not, her own concerns apparently having only been aroused by the end of the reply. She sneers impatiently above apples and oranges. "What _is_ it, you waste of air?"

 Tyrion takes a deep breath, lifts his head and smiles beatifically back at her. "Let me first remind you that your piddling anniversary party might be considered, by some, to be less important than a certain person's sixty-fifth nameday, which I believe will shortly be upon us." If Tywin is initially surprised that his youngest son considered it a matter worth mentioning, he reconsiders at the obvious thought that Tyrion is simply needling his sister for all he is worth. It is tiresome, but the habits of a lifetime can be hard to shake, Tywin thinks, as Tyrion turns to him. "And I am happy to inform you, father, that even that great milestone has just been trumped." He looks at Cersei once more, his happiness now unconfined as he quietly says, "Jaime has _wed_."

 Cersei's fork falls to the very edge of the table, tipping off to hit the stone floor with a loud clatter as she stares at Tyrion in horror, her features twisting in revulsion. "That's a _lie_."

 "No, it isn't," Tyrion says, waving his phone briefly at her. He looks at it then, and the clear fondness in him as he peers at the lit screen goes some way to stop the blood thundering in Tywin's ears at the unexpected revelation. "Jaime has always preferred action to the written word, as you both know, but here he has said quite enough, it seems to me. It is a picture of him with his new wife, and it says 'Just married.' He even put a smiley face at the end!" His jubilant tone sees Cersei lunging across the table, enraged, upending the fruit bowl as she tries to reach the offending message, but Tyrion throws his hand behind his head, doing just enough to keep it away from her.

 Tywin feels his patience wear thin as an apple lands on his eggs, and an errant pear hits his chest, dropping dully into his lap with a wet thud as its skin splits. He places the pear carefully next to his plate and is on the verge of ordering Tyrion to make the situation clearer, when it is done anyway. His son holds his phone out in offering to him, still staring squarely at Cersei. "I think father should see this first, don't you?"

 Tywin cannot tell if it is said out of spite; for the 'benefit' of his sibling, whose arms tremble with rage as she rears up on them before flinging herself back into her seat, or if that is how Tyrion would have done things in any case. Possibly both. Tywin leaves that aside and accepts the phone, taking a measured look at the image there. His own sense of relief is born when he sees the faces before him. Jaime is sat on the stone stairs at the westerly end of the beach of Ghirash, being held by arms that are larger than his own. He is gazing up longingly into a face which most charitably could be called homely, obscured though it is by large sunglasses and the brim of a floppy sunhat. Jaime's wife is not one Tywin would have imagined him actively choosing, perhaps.

  _But the issue could be significantly worse, given the options open to him over there._

And they seem genuinely absorbed in each other. The photo is badly framed and poorly lit, a shocking example of the distressing 'selfie' trend if ever he saw one, but that much is unmistakable. Tywin breathes an audible sigh as equilibrium returns. "The schoolteacher," he notes. "At least she is respectable. In a manner of speaking."

 Tyrion rolls his eyes in renewed and vast disdain. "You had us _followed?"_

Tywin gives that as little attention as it deserves, clipped words tripping unapologetically from his tongue. "Both of my sons suddenly disappeared. Naturally, I had you followed, and had those close to you during that time scrutinized." He breaks his own rule then, putting one phone down and fishing his own out of the left-hand pocket of his jacket, which is hanging tidily over the back of his chair, to send a two-word text.

  _Brienne Tarth._

By the time he is done, Tyrion has already worked through the sullen stage of his reaction to this most recent 'invasion of his privacy', as he would have it. Tywin is thankful he is getting quicker at doing so. He is unsure why family members who are at a high risk of kidnapping, given their collective wealth, would begrudge his alleged interference, but there it is. As for Cersei, she has snatched away her brother's phone, and is gaping at it in disgust. "Jaime has married this thing?"

"Yes," Tyrion answers, absolutely evenly. Tywin will allow his youngest child this; that whilst his personal entanglements have sometimes showed a leaning towards beauty, he has an appreciation for other qualities too. His views on this Tarth woman might hold some value. Cersei denies the truth of this event again, more vehemently now, and whilst she does, Tywin struggles to remember the last time his daughter reminded him of his wife. He ceases this needless train of thought as Tyrion reaffirms his point. "Yes he did, sister. He has. And I am happy for him. For them both."

 Cersei is fuming. "But she's a freak," she whispers furiously, as if to herself, moving the phone both closer and further away from her eyes, as if it will change what she is seeing. "Look at her. She's bigger than him!" Her hand stills, and Cersei's eyes flicker to father and brother both, in complete incomprehension. "How could he? _Why_ would he? She's so ugly. She's hideous!"

 Tyrion's short fingers tap out a staccato beat on the table. "She is good," he says, lifting his hand and gesturing for the return of his phone. "I wonder," he adds, with a cutting grin, "what could have possibly driven Jaime to find and fall in love with a _good_ woman, sister?"

 Tyrion's phone promptly flies over his head, smashing into the wall behind him. Tyrion is moving to retrieve it even as it lands on the floor, whilst Cersei stands, glaring at her father and brother both.

 "Is it broken?" Tywin asks, watching his son shake the device in a way which might not be wholly advisable, under the circumstances.

 Tyrion re-takes his seat and shrugs, unconcerned. "The screen is cracked, but I think it lives."

 Tywin sends Cersei a bleak look. "You will see that it is replaced. _Today_."

 "I will do no such fucking thing!" she shouts. "What is _wrong_ with you both? Jaime has been taken in by this...monster, this beast, probably for our wealth, and you are worrying about a phone? You may accept this madness, but I have no intention of doing so." She flies from the room in a fury and a flurry of expensive silk pyjamas.

 "So glad that old thing's finally over with," Tyrion mumbles quietly to himself, into the calmer air she leaves in her wake, obviously thinking himself unheard.

 "I can't help but agree," Tywin says, close to smiling as Tyrion stills in his place, turning his head slowly in an admirably deftly measured sort of shock. "Of course I knew," Tywin tells him. "It was foolish and twisted, but we both know Jaime can be loyal past the point of sense. When he chooses to be."

  _"Far_ past the point of sense, father." Tyrion rolls his eyes. "Years past it."

 "Will he listen to Cersei?"

 Tyrion shakes head. "He hasn't for some time now. It's unlikely he'll even answer her calls."

 "Good." Tywin's phone trills once, but he leaves it be for the moment. "Tell me, Tyrion. Is Cersei right? Has this Brienne Tarth married Jaime for our wealth?" Tywin feels, from his youngest son's reaction to the news alone, that he knows the answer already, but it is a question that must be asked.

 "No!" Tyrion chuckles, picking up his cereal and sloshing it about, probably to see how saturated it is. Then he stops and stares at Tywin with undoubted seriousness. "Father, I cannot think of anyone less likely to be a gold digger. It is as I say. Brienne is a good, kind woman, a schoolteacher of all things, who makes Jaime very happy. When I was there, he was trailing after her like a foundling puppy, and neither of them had the slightest idea what was happening at first, I'm certain of it. And I like to think I helped it along by bringing his attention swiftly to her legs, which truly are the longest I've ever seen."

 "I'm sure you were in no way crude about it," Tywin offers, as dryly as he can.

 "Of course I was!" Tyrion scoffs. "Though I must confess that at the time, I didn't intend to engage Jaime's idiotically hardwired sense of chivalry in any way."

 Tywin sips at the last of his coffee. "People tend to underrate luck in many things," he says mildly, wincing minutely at the unpleasant coolness of his beverage. Tyrion appears to be just as displeased with his cereal, grimacing as he chews on a mouthful, though experience tells Tywin that it won't prevent him finishing it. "So," Tywin muses, "a schoolteacher. I had never thought to welcome one into the family. Though her employment records are excellent, I will admit. I am given to understand that she has won the little known Rainbow Award for educational inclusivity for the last two years and reached the regional finals in this one for outstanding teaching, which is extremely creditable for one so early in her career. There is also the matter of the free service that she lends her family friend, every year. That indicates some strong measure of loyalty."

 Metal hits porcelain and Tyrion groans. "Please tell me you haven't checked her medical records as well, father."

 "That would not be _legal_ ," Tywin states, silently cursing the Stormlands Medical Authority for having adopted such a strong adherence to its ethical policies. He knows there would be no point in even trying to access that information. Under the relatively new stewardship of the exceptionally dour and inflexible Stannis Baratheon, all medical files are now effectively out of bounds. A pity, but this Brienne seems to be a healthy young individual, in any case.

 Tywin stares at the apple which has flattened his eggs, and silently deems this unusual breakfast done, though not wholly unsuccessful. If Jaime's disturbing dependence on the doubtful affections of Cersei is truly at its end, perhaps he can be thankful for his eldest son having found this wife of his. And if she, in her turn, proves to be unsuitable, there are many legal avenues which can be explored. He rises and puts on his jacket, then retrieving his phone. "I have some calls to make," he says, heading for the open doors to the garden. He would have to be stone deaf not to hear Tyrion's tedious grumblings about fatherly meddling, so he looks back at his son, waiting for his spoon to rise once more. "The time I had to fetch you from Ghirash, there was an establishment on the seafront called Arrietty's," Tywin then asks mildly. "Do you happen to know if it is still open? I seem to recall they served the most deliciously prepared steak." He doesn't wait for an answer, simply striding outside and allowing himself the rare luxury of smiling freely, as his youngest son audibly gags and spits out his mouthful of cereal.

 

/-/-/-/-/

 

He has never been happier than he is sitting here, on dark stone steps, using Brienne's thighs as if they were the arms of a chair, her own arms wrapped loosely about his shoulders. "You know, I didn't think much of the floral display." Jaime leans back and steals the sunglasses from Brienne's nose, shoving them onto his instead.

 She peers down at him with a self-deprecating smile. "Those look better on you than on me," she sighs. "And I think the officials expect those using their services to provide flowers. The arrangement there would be easy to remove, if people wanted to use their own."

 Given that the other, less hastily arranged marriage party that arrived as they departed the small civic hall may well have denuded three hefty foreign flower meadows, Jaime can't help but think Brienne has a point. But that doesn't mean he has to _agree_. "It was a collection of driftwood, spray-painted black and shoved into a huge red vase of uncertain origin, arranged with a distinct lack of skill."

 "Snob," Brienne chides, playing with the floppy brim of her wide, straw sunhat, before dropping a kiss absently to the top of his head. "I thought it was quite elegant."

 "For a bunch of sticks standing up in a bucket of stones."

 She huffs with a mild kind of amusement. "We've been married for less than hour, and you're already picking holes in the ceremony?"

 Jaime's phone starts to ring again, thus far, the only blight on their day. "Better that than even thinking about this." He goes to reject the call, again, but Brienne reaches for his arm, stilling him.

 "You're going to have to speak to her at some point, love."  That last word sits uneasily on her tongue yet, a odd mixing of joy at her being able to say it out loud and wonder that she has ever found the need to do so at all.

 Jaime swipes the call away and stands, holding his hand out to pull Brienne up. "Not today. No."

 Brienne collects her things and their new documents from her side in one hand and accepts his offer with the other, rising up to tower over him, even if she could do that without the intervening few steps' advantage. Jaime smiles up at her.

 At her hat, ludicrously wide but virtually unadorned, just a piece of plain mid-brown leather trim on it that matches her belt and her sandals. Her clothes, a stripe of navy blue that ranges from her neck to her ankles. It is not unlike her darker swimsuit, though the legs fall far more loosely and even elegantly, all the way down. From the front, the top is close to identical to those swimsuits of hers that he adores, particularly as he has now had the unique privilege of watching her shimmy and jump up and down as she tries to get out of them, even if it this is far less tight. But Jaime thinks it better yet, a halter neck held by a single button, leaving her back bare. She had initially baulked at the insistence of the female members of their small wedding party that she leave the very thin wrap she would customarily use to cover her shoulders behind.

 Walda had gone so far as to stamp her feet in opposition to the idea of her wearing it and Barsena called Ellaria so they could have an extended and shockingly detailed talk, on loudspeaker, naturally, about Brienne's more excellent physical properties, before Missy simply pulled the offending material from Brienne's shoulders as they left for the civic centre. "It seems like we're both staying," she'd said, waving it gently at them as Grey used Lennart's wheelchair to strategically shepherd Brienne out through the archway. Somebody had to remain behind, to look after the other guests at Sunshine Apartments, after all, and that task fell to Missandei.

 So here she is. Brienne.

  _My wife._

Jaime can't stop smiling now, his cheeks damned close to hurting as he stares at her and says, "I can't imagine having a more beautiful bride."

 He means it, he truly does, but he doesn't think Brienne sees it herself yet. She doesn't quite seem to think it a lie, but she steps down closer to him, taking her glasses back and saying, "There's no need for this, Jaime," only to take the small jump down to the sands of the beach, padding away from him, her toes curling in the soft sands as she does so.

 He follows her, because he can do nothing else, and nudges at her shoulder to make a space between Brienne and the wash of the sea. "I won't stop saying it until you believe me."

 "Then you might be saying it for a long time."

 "We have the rest of our lives, and I can be very convincing." He reaches out, pulling her back around to face him. "Brienne, I won't lie to you. I'll never call you pretty, though there are parts of you that merit the word. But you _are_ beautiful. Trust me. I know a thing or two about beauty being a lie, and when it is not. You've shown me that."

 "I trust you, Jaime," Brienne whispers, and even if she can't fully accept how Jaime sees her, it is enough, for now.

 "You'll see it too," he promises her. However, he doesn't get to see Brienne's reaction to that heartfelt statement, as a rogue wave washes right up, and over, and _into_ his shoes. "You know, Brienne? I don't think I properly thought this romantic walking along the beach thing out."

 She laughs softly next to him, waving a brown manila envelope and her sandals at him, all clasped safely in her left hand. "I didn't want to -"

 Jaime's phone rings again. He can feel her arm tense next to his, and he doesn't want this for her. He glances at his phone. "It's Tyrion."

 "Answer it," she encourages him, pulling them both a few feet away from the surf so they can sit on the sand, and Jaime does reply, though not perhaps in the way Brienne would have wished.

 "Tyrion. You complete shit," he says, to his brother's waving image. "Did you have to tell her _today_?"

 "You left me no choice, Jaime. Remember the best timing in history thing? Which was what? Ten minutes ago? Our dearest sister was bemoaning how her stupid fucking party was the most important thing to happen in the wholeness of time when we were all sat about the breakfast room table."

 Jaime's gut drops, as if into his wet shoes. " _All?_ You mean _father_ was there too?"

 "Yes. But he seems surprisingly pleased, overall, I'd have to say. I think he likes Brienne. Either that or he's gone outside to corral himself one of the herds of free-range lawyers he probably lets roam about the grounds."

 "I am going to kill you, little brother." Brienne rests a hand consolingly on his shoulder as Jaime glares into his phone, only to end up squinting at the screen with a touch of confusion. "Tyrion, you seem to be down a nose. Has somebody been hacking at you with some kind of weaponry? Seriously, it looks like you've taken a blow to the face, and I'd like to send whoever did it a gift, seeing as how I have had to reject more than ten calls from Cers _very_ recently. On my fucking wedding day. On _Brienne's_."

 He barely notes Brienne's phone ringing, or her answering it, as Tyrion's face becomes whole and unwhole over and over again, whilst he shifts his screen about. "I'm afraid you'd have to thank Cersei, Jaime. She threw my phone at the wall. My screen's fucked. I think there's a crack or two running over the camera."

 "She took it well, then?" Jaime offers, as Brienne cautiously says, "I am she."

 Whatever his brother replies is lost as Brienne grips Jaime's arm tightly and stares at him in horror. "Mr. Lannister?" she manages to say, somehow calmly and politely.

  _Fuck, no._

"Tyrion, where's father?" He must be interrupting an extraordinary anecdote with a real edge of panic, because Jaime's little brother stops dead in his tracks, but only after a further second or two of words he simply doesn't register.

 "What's wrong, Jaime?"

 "He's cold-calling Brienne. Now."

 "Oh, fuck him. Fuck this shit! I think he's in the garden." The already confused and broken picture from Westeros gets worse as Tyrion moves out there, as swiftly as he is able. Jaime only sees fractured, pixellated images of the familiar places of his childhood, as he curls a hand through Brienne's.

 A hazy gazebo. A cluster of bent trees. Rocks climbing up to the sky.

 "No, ser, I would not do that. I can provide well enough for my own needs." Jaime rubs his thumb against Brienne's urgently, as if to ask her if she needs him to take her phone, and she shakes her head tightly. "Yes, ser, my career is important to me." She listens, pauses, and laughs nervously. "I have no idea. We are quite new to each other. Perhaps, some day. We haven't talked about that yet."

 Jaime's screen at last shows snatched signs, as his brother runs, of his father sitting on a bench near what he believes is the old fish pond, and if he finds some respite in seeing the far off image of Tywin Lannister cut in twain by a broken screen, it is made all the better by hearing a phone being firmly taken out of his elder's hand and being switched off with a descending melody.

 "Are you alright, Brienne?" Tyrion shouts, and Jaime can feel her breathing out slowly next to him.

 She looks at Jaime shakily. "Yes."

 He kisses her shoulder, which is the closest part of her his lips can find. "I'm sorry."

 "Don't be," she whispers. "That's not you."

 But her relief is short-lived as a stern face hoves into skewed view next to Tyrion's. "Hello, Jaime. And it is good to speak to you, Brienne."

 "Yes," Brienne says, plunging into a deathly pallor at Jaime's side as she takes in the cold features of the patriarch of the Lannister family.

 Tyrion glances up at his father, and then across more than a continent. "Don't worry, Brienne. This really _is_ his happy face."

 "If you don't mind, Tyrion," Tywin intones, "I should like to offer a brief, less ill-mannered message to my new good-daughter. Welcome to the family, Brienne. I look forward to meeting you."

 "Thank you," she quietly replies, as Jaime shakes his head and Tyrion appears to hurriedly put some distance between himself and their father.

 "Well, now that we've finished the standard 'welcome-to-the-family-that-somehow-sounds-like-a- _death-threat'_ ," Tyrion says pointedly, and clearly not for their ears, before grinning into his phone, "I am truly pleased for you both. I've got this end, so have a good time and call me when you're ready. I'll try to keep them in line."

 "Thanks, brother," Jaime says, though he is unsure whether even Tyrion has the capabilities to keep both their parent and sister in check. "We might be away for an extra day or two."

 "No matter. Just have fun, okay? I'll speak to you soon." With a final, freely given smile, he says, "Congratulations, guys," and ends the call.

 Brienne seems to have heard nothing of the close of the conversation, for her gaze is stuck to Jaime's phone as if with glue. Eventually, she shudders in her place and looks at Jaime. "So... _that_ was your father?"

 Jaime nods slowly and she groans, her head dropping forwards. "He's just going to turn up on our doorstep, isn't he? When he finds out?"

 "Absolutely," Jaime says. "Probably with many official documents, none of which I have the slightest intention of reading, let alone signing."

 "Will he want to stay? Where will we even _put_ him?"

 If there is an uncharacteristic edge of panic in Brienne's voice, Jaime will admit, at least to himself, that the thought of staying in a home with his father that does not allow him the luxury of retreating to an entirely separate wing isn't exactly a welcome one for him either. "Well, I have some ideas. You said the Blackfish wants to help you out with your boat. Will he do some more if we pay him? Could he do it quickly?"

 Brienne's head lifts, a small spark of hope evident in her. "He might. And your father likes boats." But then she shakes her head. "What if it isn't ready in time?"

 "There has to be some kind of hotel nearby."

 "There's The Yellow Teapot. It's a small guest house near the school, with an attached tea room." Brienne looks at Jaime doubtfully. "But that's about it. There isn't much in the way of tourism, out in Haystack."

 "Perfect. So, on Lightbringer or at The Yellow Teapot. Glad we've got that sorted." She still doesn't seem certain. "Brienne, it's going to be fine. Let's put it this way. One of my father's favourite sayings has always been 'my house, my rules.' I'm honestly relishing the thought of getting to say 'our house, our rules' in return. Even if I haven't seen it yet."

 She reaches for her phone, but Jaime just shakes his head. "I keep telling you, Brienne. I don't want to see it until I get there."

 "You really don't, do you?" She seems utterly bemused at this, but Jaime is itching to see their home for himself, to find _her_ within its walls.

 "I don't," he smiles. "I trust you enough to know that we aren't going to be squeezing ourselves into an overly large dog kennel for the forseeable future. Even if your house did cost less than my permanent parking spot near the Red Keep."

 Brienne remains utterly appalled by that level of cost, snorting as she says, "I'm guessing your beloved parking space didn't come with a garden big enough to need a small, ride-on mower?"

 "A ride-on mower? _Result!"_ Jaime punches the air. "What? I've never had a ride-on mower of my own before. They were always used by father's gardeners."

"Actually, it belongs to Mrs Fell, next door," Brienne concedes, rolling her eyes. "It was her husband's, but after he died, she didn't want to use it. So I maintain it, and whip around both the gardens, every so often."

 "Can I take it for a spin?"

 "Yes, Jaime," Brienne laughs softly. "If Mrs Fell is fine with it, I don't see why not. And don't worry," she says, brushing her lips over his shoulder. "She will be."

 "I am going love Haystack," he mumbles against her rising cheek.

 "Good," Brienne whispers, only for her to face to fall again. "Your father. He is going to be angry with me, isn't he?"

 Jaime turns to her, wrapping an arm about her lower back and placing his chin on her shoulder. "It was my idea, Brienne. My doing. And he's unlikely to be as outwardly angry as the official at the civic centre, at least," he offers, the memories of a finely waxed handlebar moustache twitching in fury at traditions being broken, if not illegally, still fresh. "He was in fucking conniptions."

 Brienne laughs softly at that. "He was, wasn't he?" She looks at him, her face near, and worried. "But, Jaime -"

 "No, Brienne," Jaime says. He shifts about on the sand until he is on his knees, facing her, and he takes her hands firmly. "You're the sensible one. I think we both already know that. But I'm quite capable of some sense myself, and you haven't offered a single solid argument yet that tells me I've made the wrong choice. Your name and reputation can have no effect on my work. None. You know that. But my old name, my past, could call your judgment into question in a heartbeat. Better I lost my name, than you your career."

 His wife scowls most adorably unattractively, and then nods her agreement, only then to look at him with some caution. "It is likely to come out, at some stage, Jaime."

 There is only one person outside of Ghirash that Brienne has told of this day, and even though he knows by now just how foolish it is, Jaime's gut twists a little in jealousy. "Is your first 'real love' likely to be a problem, then?"

 "No," Brienne says, "Ren's fine with it. He trusts me, even though he did call me a 'murder groupie', until I told him to stick it."

 "Harsh words, coming from you," Jaime says, trying to sound breezy, but Brienne seems to see the phrase offered to her by her friend biting him, so she picks up her phone, scrolls through some messages and hands it over. Jaime stares down at the screen and tries not to laugh.

  _Ren: Of course I didn't mean it, Dumpling. It's not a problem, seriously. I've just always wanted to call someone a murder groupie. Never figured it would be you! :D_

"'Dumpling'?" Jaime chuckles, his fears swiftly shed, and Brienne shrugs, the origins of the nickname perhaps lost over the course of their friendship. But Jaime flicks his eyes down and notices another message, which Brienne initially doesn't seem to want him to see. Her hand ventures out, as if to snatch the phone back, but then she reconsiders and gives her assent with a silent 'yes'.

  _Ren: I've just looked him up. I'd forgotten how hot he is! Do they sell them like sticks of rock, over there? Could you get me one as a souvenir? And how is his stick of rock, by the way?_

By the time he reads Brienne's curt reply, Jaime is laughing openly.

  _Brienne: No, no, and absolutely none of your business. Ever. Am I understood?_

"And we trust the education of actual children to this man?" Jaime says, only to smile at Brienne. "I suppose he is working within grammatical form though, so it could be worse."

 They grin at each other, and Jaime hands Brienne's phone back. Yet the doing of it shifts what is visible on the screen, and they both stare down at the message that slows to a stop in the middle of it.

_Brienne: I don't think there are many men like him, Ren. I'm happy._

Jaime's bones could melt in him at that simply put defence. "I'm happy too, Brienne," he says, his voice thick, as he rises, a little unsteadily, to his feet. She follows him up, picking up the various bit and pieces she'd scattered about her when the fearsome Tywin Lannister called, gathering them together. Though if Jaime is now even more sure of what has happened today than he was when it was done, with all of his conviction, there is one thing he can't let go. As Brienne shakes sand from her loose trousers with her free hand, he says, "What do you mean there aren't 'many' men like me? There's only me. You are aware of that, right? Dumpling? Lambikins? Wench? Captain? Wife?"

 She moves in and holds him close. "Idiot. Shambles. Husband."

 "I'm two up on the whole pet name thing. Thank you, Renly!" he cries out.

 She burrows her head down into his neck, all warmth and love, and says, "Dumpling is not yours. And you might want to lose 'wench'."

 "Which means, of course -"

 "That you won't," Brienne says, smiling against him. "I know."

 They stand close and Jaime is overwhelmed by it, by his being so accepted, but that doesn't mean it can't be broken. And it is, very shortly, by their names ringing out across the sands, from some distance away.

 "Brienne! Jaime!"

 His reaction is so inbuilt and automatic, he just never feels it coming. In a split-second, he has jumped three clear feet away, and they stare blankly at each other in utter shock. Brienne's face flickers with a moment of self-doubt, yet before he can try to explain, she drops what she is holding, smiles at him tentatively, and holds out her hand. She _understands_. "Jaime. You don't have to hide this, if you don't want to."

 In that moment his chest fills with a limitless warmth and love for his wife, but still his hand shakes as he reaches for her. Their fingers fumble but once she has a grip, Brienne pulls him gently back until he is standing directly in front of her. He is closer to the sea, so she is made yet taller, or him yet shorter to her. "You can have this, Jaime. _This_ ," she says, mirroring their words of this morning, slowly gathering him in until the side of his jaw rests against her collarbone. "But with more clothes than when we're in the shower," she dryly adds.

 He chuckles against her. "Damn, and there was I, just about to let loose the halter at your neck."

 "Don't you _dare_ ," she huffs.

 He slides his palms over her bare back, finding comfort in the solidity of her, in the fact that she already knows him almost as well as he does himself. But then the heel of his right hand slips and he pulls it back. "Walda filmed the ceremony from behind you, didn't she, Brienne?"

 "Yes. On her very pink phone."

 "Then I'm sorry, love," he says, waving his fingers in front of her eyes, "but I think I missed a spot. Or two."

 Brienne stares at the pale green remains of the factor million-or-so sunblock, originally made for babies, he is showing her, and shrugs. "Jaime, do you think I care about some cream on my back? I don't. And I hope you don't, either."

 "I couldn't care _less_ ," he laughs. "For all I thought of it, we could have been married in the shower, this morning. I just wanted you to be my wife. To be your husband." He pauses, rocking his head briefly from side to side. "I _am_ sorry about the kiss at the ceremony, by the way. That was a shit-ton of awkward, wasn't it?"

 He can damned near see her replaying their brief peck at the close of proceedings, like chickens seeking grain on the floor of a barn; until that very moment, they both seemed to feel more comfortable with limiting showing their fast-evolving attachment, at least when in the company of others, to doing little more than holding hands. Brienne smiles then, her lips brushing his eyebrow with far more emotion. "I thought it was just _me_."

 "Obviously not," Jaime says, spinning them around in the sand until they are of roughly equal height. Their names are called out once more. "Now. Shall we show them we can actually kiss?"

 "Why not?" Brienne smiles, and though it is a swift thing still, it lingers some, and is more playful. It has meaning. On the inside, Jaime roars. And he wants her. When they are done, and holding each other tightly, they nudge each other's heads around to their two friends, who have apparently given up waiting for them to move, and are making their way over instead.

 Harghaz and Barsena have only just begun their short journey, a fact made clear when but a few steps onto the beach sees Barsena tearing off her heighty stilettos and throwing them back at the decking in front of their restaurant with firm thuds which can be heard even at this distance, giving the impression that the metal heels have embedded themselves into the hardwood there.

 "I see what you mean about them being former cage fighters," Jaime mutters against Brienne's skin, amending the statement lightly when the tall husband follows her out. "Even if he mostly wrestles animals into pots, these days."

 "You leave Harghaz alone," Brienne chides. "Besides, I think he's bringing a present."

 It has to be food, which is cheering. "Is it some of his boar stew? Because I have to say, that was a revelation."

 Brienne's smile, as she shakes her head, is far too innocent, even for her. Jaime groans. "What is it, Brienne?"

 "I'd forgotten about, it, I'll admit." Her brow creases. "The Ghiscari call it tinkari, or tenkarri, or tengkri. I can't quite remember."

 She clearly can, so he tickles her sides, and Brienne squirms underneath his fingers girlishly, though she doesn't make a single sound. "What _is_ it, Brienne?"

 She grabs his hands and holds them down at their sides, rising up and looking him square in the eyes, even if her description doesn't come easily. "A sort of...heavy, hotly spiced...but cold...gelatinous custard...speciality dish?"

 Jaime squeezes their fists together. "That's the worst single sentence I think I've ever heard. Why would they give us that?"

 Brienne shrugs at him. "It's more for you than for me," she blurts out, before dropping her head to whisper, " It's supposed to lend," her whole body tensing before she mutters, "'steel to your rod' for the night, as I understand it." She straightens back up, a light flush evident under the freckles on her cheeks.

 He pulls Brienne in yet tighter, and she moans just a little. She is seventeen thousand tonnes of adorable, but he can't quite let this go, because he wants his wife in this moment as much as he believes she had wanted him a second time in the shower, after they woke again so pleasantly together this morning. He would be driven to madness by now, had he left that small bathroom without the relief she seemed to crave then. He rolls his hips gently against hers once more. "Do you really think I need more steel in my rod, Brienne?"

 Yet she is made of stubborn steel herself, her body bent to her own will when she truly wishes it, which is one of the things he loves about her. "No," she almost frowns. "But then, traditionally, how would I know that?"

 "True," he agrees, now just wanting to throw the world away and be in a shared bed with her. "So, I should eat some of the 'gelatinous custard' of my very recent nightmares?"

 "Just a little will be enough, Jaime," Brienne says. "And we can take the rest with us. I've never found any tenkrigki blocking up any drains, ever, though I'm sure very few ever eat it."

 "Good to know," he says. "So then we can find that bed of yours and I can undo the halter?"

 Brienne sighs. "Only after we've fought our way through Walda's cupcakes. Do you think she's filled the yard with them, yet?" She pauses then, an unexpected line of worry taking up residence above her eyebrows. "Wait. What did you mean when you told Tyrion we might be away for longer? Term starts in four days, Jaime."

 So she _did_ catch that, Jaime thinks, smiling against her cheek. "We'd only be an extra day, Brienne," he assures her, making sure he looking her dead in the eyes when he shares his hastily arranged gift with her. "I spoke to the brothers Tyrell. I thought you'd like to go see some men about a sword, if only for a few hours."

 For a moment, she seems struck dumb, simply blinking at him. But then Brienne gapes, turning to one side and almost doubling over, a sound that can only be thought to be akin to the starting of a small jet engine roaring from her mouth, which she tries to stifle by slamming her hands over it. He catches his new wife at her hips, thinking her about to fall over entirely, but she doesn't, straightening up instead, climbing up him like a frame, her hands moving from his hips, to his ribs, to his upper arms, where they settle, her thumbs brushing at the fronts of his shoulders as she falls quiet, chewing on her bottom lip. "The Highgarden Blade?" If her initial reaction was a roar, this is a breath on the breeze.

 "Yes."

 "But, Jaime! You haven't even been _home_ yet." Her fingers rise and dance along his jawline, the oddest kind of fight playing out across her face; sheer wonder at his offer marred by concern for him.

 "Another day won't make any difference to me, Brienne, and my work is flexible. I get plenty of free time. You _don't._ I thought we should make the most of that."

 For a few seconds, she is very still, all except for her thumb tucking a few short strands of his hair behind his left ear, a mirror image of the gesture he has found he loves doing with hers. And then the sun could have risen in her eyes, the worries gone, and no space for anything but happiness left. "You knew, didn't you? When I said I wanted to go there, you knew I probably never would."

 "My love. My wife. Frankly, you spend so much time helping other people that it's a wonder to me you can even find any to eat your irritatingly wholesome nuts and berries."

 She smiles brightly, if shyly, not quite conceding his point before she simply kisses him. "Thank you." Another kiss, though this time their noses clash, and her head falls to his shoulder, her whole body shaking in amusement as they start to hold one another as they should, whether it be in the shower, in their bed, or in the home he has yet to see, but already longs for, as it is where she will be. "I love you." Her words make his skin tingle, and he pulls her closer, saying the same to the soft skin beneath her ear.

 There are only a few precious seconds of this, of what they are, of hands brushing over backs they are only just getting to truly know, before their names are called out again. Neither of them are quite willing to let go just yet, but Jaime makes a concerted effort to at least look up. Harghaz and Barsena are getting very close with his personal culinary doom now, so as soon as her head rises, Jaime tastes the lips of his wife as if in a final salute, feeling her smile flutter against his at the unspoken notion. Or perhaps not, for then she pulls away, refusing to let go of his right hand, tugging him along behind her as she heads towards their friends, her toes disappearing into the fine, golden sands when she quickly leans down to pick up her hat, the straps of her sandals, and their large brown envelope in her left hand. Then she stands and looks back over her shoulder. "Shall we do this and get back, Jaime?"

 "I don't think that'll get us to the Reach Museum any sooner, my sweet wife."

 "Who said anything about the museum?" Her eyes are darkened, and she obviously isn't thinking about a certain Valyrian steel blade anymore.

 "Good point," he says, and follows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to all those who have read, added kudos to, or shared their thoughts by commenting on this fic. I hope it was a pleasant diversion.
> 
> More of the same to RoseHeart and Coraleeveritas, and those others who have helped me get through recent times.
> 
> And my extreme gratefulness for Nurdles, without whom this would never have come to pass. *Doffs cap*
> 
> Bestest wishies to all.


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